


Me and My Heart (We'll Make It Through)

by fallendarlings



Category: Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: 2012 Steve Rogers, 9/11 mention, Anal Sex, Angst, Avengers: Endgame (Movie) Compliant, Avengers: Endgame (Movie) Spoilers, Barebacking, Blow Jobs, Bottom Steve Rogers, Bucky Barnes Loves Cats, Bucky Barnes Loves Fashion, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Coney Island, Depressed Bucky Barnes, Depressed Steve Rogers, Disney World, Eating Disorders, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Engagement, Fix-It, Gay Bucky Barnes, Hurt Bucky Barnes, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Marriage Proposal, Oral Sex, Panic Attacks, Post-Avengers: Endgame (Movie), Recreational Drug Use, Rich Bucky, Road Trip, Sexual Tension, Slow Burn, Steve Rogers Can Wield Mjolnir, Stucky - Freeform, Suicidal Ideation, Suicide Attempt, Time Travel, Top Bucky Barnes, Wedding, as he should be, bc supersoldiers are immune to diseases, but u are not so pls have safe sex, cognitive processing therapy, former prostitute steve, resentful bucky, roller skating, sambucky friendship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-01
Updated: 2019-12-05
Packaged: 2020-02-10 19:19:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 25
Words: 160,959
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18666727
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fallendarlings/pseuds/fallendarlings
Summary: “Buck…Bucky. You knew I wasn’t coming back. I couldn’t keep going the way I was. I needed her, needed the Howlies. I thought you understood….” Steve grips his wrist with an age spotted hand. “I never wanted to hurt you. I would never do that on purpose. Come on, you know me.”Bucky jerks his arm away, stepping back. He’s breathing too harshly and he’s about to say things that are going to hurt both of them but maybe it’s exactly what Steve deserves to hear. “You know what, Steve? No, I don’t know you. I don’t know athingabout you. You’re just some guy I used to be friends with but for you it was eighty years ago and for me it was a few days."Bucky Barnes has a broken heart in 2023. There's nothing to do but pick up the pieces and try to figure out how to live.But in another timeline freshly defrosted Steve Rogers only knows is that Bucky is out there somewhere, alive.Everybody deserves a chance to heal





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I've been cycling through the stages of grief way too hard since last Thursday. This fic is a love letter from me to Bucky Barnes and a hate note from me to Endgame!Steve Rogers. It sounds sad now and I promise, it's going to be. (Hey, if you know me and if you've read any of my fics before you know that anything I write is GOING to be flooded with angst. It's just who I am). But I swear I'm gonna get us and Bucky Barnes a happy ending, we just have to go through the journey to get there first. 
> 
> IF YOU ARE AN OLD STEVE STAN DONT READ YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED I WILL BE TAKING OUT ALL OF MY ANGER ON HIS RAGGEDY LOOKING ASS THIS IS THE ONLY WARNING YOU GET!
> 
> There's a mention of 9/11 in the first chapter. If you are triggered by that, it's absolutely avoidable, just look out and skip the paragraph in chapter one that starts with the sentence 'Bucky's fingers clench around the pen in his hand' and you're good :)
> 
> Title from Stone Cold by Demi Lovato.

_This morning I woke up and Steve pulled me aside before breakfast to talk. It’s been a week and a half since… the battle. With Thanos. The same one for me, but years apart from the one in Wakanda for him. He had barely spoken to me in that time, but I understood. It was a shock, after all those years. Even if it was only seconds to those of us who were taken out with the snap. He pulled me aside and I was so relieved because I thought that he was finally ready to talk about those five years. Finally accepting that I’m actually- still- not dead. Again. But then he told me that he was taking the stones back to their timelines today. And that he was taking himself back to the past. Back to her. And staying there. I didn’t understand and I still don’t. God help me, my entire life, all I’ve wanted was for him to be happy. But this… I cannot reconcile myself to this. Even though I look up and he’s sitting across the room, on the couch, here with me again. Only gone for mere seconds longer than her was supposed to be. And yet this morning he was young and vibrating with too much energy like always. And now his skin is wrinkled and sallow, the serum made muscles gone, frail once more but in a way that I never imagined he could be. We’re sitting in the same room but we are lifetimes apart now. And I cannot understand it and I do not know how I am supposed to accept it. How he can possibly think I’m even capable of it. I don’t even know what to say to him so I haven’t said anything at all since his return._  


_It hurts. It hurts a fucking lot. To face the undeniable truth that he has always been my true north, the axis that my world spins around. The only one who could bring me back from the darkest places a person can ever go. I knew he didn’t feel that love in the same way I did, but I thought I at least meant something to him, you know? I thought he actually meant it when he said to the end of the line. I’m trying hard not to blame him, I really am. But right now… it just feels like a fucking lie. Everything. He looks about two days away from his deathbed. I don’t know if I can bear it. I hope he doesn’t expect me to support his casket at his funeral. And the fact that I even have to consider that when just twelve hours ago he was healthy and full of life, it tears me apart inside. I can’t help but wonder if it’s because of my past, the things I did as the Winter Soldier. Could he truly never forgive me in his heart even though he said over and over to anyone who would listen that it wasn’t me, wasn’t my fault? Am I so different now from the boy he knew in Brooklyn that I am no longer worth the effort for even a friendship? When he dies, and he will, I will be left in this world maybe not entirely alone but certainly without a single person on earth who can look at me and see me simply as Bucky and not as the Winter Soldier before anything else._  


Bucky’s fingers clench around the pen in his hand and he glances across the room at Steve and Sam, who are talking quietly by the fireplace. It’s awkward, stilted conversation. Sam is sitting tensely at one end, fiddling with the ends of his sleeves as he listens to Steve talk about his life. The way he had twin girls and named them Jamie and Samantha. Bucky supposes he should feel happy for Steve, but the fact that he named his children after him and Sam almost just adds insult to injury here. He speaks of them with pride and sorrow and overwhelming guilt. They both died in the 9/11 attack. Steve hadn’t stopped it even though he knew it was going to happen. The consequences of that were the lives of his children, who he hadn’t known were going to be in the towers that day.  


The window is cold against Bucky’s cheek where his face rested against it and his leg is going to sleep but his skin is too tight, too hot. His vision blurry with liquid. It’s been a long time since he’s cried but this… of course this is thing that breaks the streak. How could it not be? The ink on the pages of his journal already stained from the teardrops he just couldn’t hold back. He refuses to have anyone see him like this though, so he slams the book shut and stands from the window seat. They’re in a guesthouse behind Stark’s ‘cabin’, and he isn’t really sure where exactly they’re going to go after they leave. The Avengers compound is toast, obviously. The place he had carved out for himself in Wakanda long gone. Steve had lived in an apartment in the city in this timeline apparently but… he didn’t have a clue how that was going to work out now. He probably didn’t even remember where it was; let alone where his keys were. They’d take it day by day.  


He clears his throat, keeping his face in the shadows. “I’m going to bed.”  


“Goodnight,” Sam glances over at him, the corner of his mouth tilting up in a sorry approximation of a smile. At least he’s managing to acknowledge Steve’s existence, even if he’s struggling internally with his decision.  


Bucky nods back and stalks out of the room, just clearing the doorway when Steve’s quiet words stop him in his tracks.  


“I’m sorry, Buck.”  


His metal hand grips the wooden doorframe so hard that it splinters in his palm. “Goodnight, Steve.”  


***  


Bucky’s in the kitchen making coffee just after dawn when Steve walks in. He had always been an early riser and apparently even his life as a civilian hadn’t changed that. Bucky looks back to the coffee maker. “You want some?”  


“Yeah… thank you.” Steve’s voice is strained, tense. “You know, once I went back, one of the things I missed most about the future was Starbucks. I had become rather attached to my macchiatos.”  


“I would have thought you might have missed your friends- your _family_ the most,” Bucky mutters under his breath. But apparently for all that he looks like any other elderly man, the serum is still coursing through Steve’s blood, still enhancing his hearing.  


“Bucky, you have to understand. I couldn’t keep fighting; it was time for me to retire. To settle down. There was no one here that I could have found shared life experience with, that would understand. I had to try and see if it would work, and it did. And I lived a beautiful life. Why can’t you just be happy for me?”  


Bucky yanks open the cabinet and grabs another coffee cup, filling it with the bitter liquid even though he wants to throw it at Steve’s head instead. His entire body is _shaking_. “Shared life experience?” And wow, yeah it definitely sounds like he gargled with broken glass this morning. “Is this supposed to be some sick joke, Steve? You lived here, in the future for eleven years. You fought aliens and robots and went to space and saved the universe. In what world could 1940’s Peggy Carter possibly understand any of that?!” He places the coffee cup in front of Steve. “Did you even tell her? That you time traveled back to her and left all your friends in the future knowing when you saw them again you would be…this. But that the time apart would be only seconds for us and you expect me to understand and be happy? You can’t sit there and expect me to be grateful that I’m going to have to watch you _die_ when I’ve spent my entire life trying to prevent that from happening. I won’t do it, Steve. I can’t.”  


“Barnes,” Sam steps into the room, clearly having overheard the conversation. His expression grim. “That’s enough. Go take a walk.”  


Bucky glowers at him and then at Steve, who doesn’t meet his eye. And then he turns on his heel and storms out of the room. He retrieves his journal and his phone from the room he had been staying in and takes it out to the dock. Hot tears drip down his cheeks. He hates it, he hates Steve, and he hates himself. Maybe it would have been better if he had just stayed dusted. Maybe he had been alive too long and he should just end it right now. Maybe he should get on a spaceship with that annoying fucking raccoon and run away to another planet and never come back.  


Maybe he should drop Steve off at the nearest low budget nursing home and leave him there to stew in hopefully his own guilt for a few weeks.  


Maybe it’s a _little_ overdramatic of him but he puts Space Cowboy by Kacey Musgraves on repeat- Shuri had listened to it while they were working on deconditioning him, back when the album had come out. A few months ago for him, but years ago for the world- and starts to write down his broken thoughts even though his hand is shaking so badly that his handwriting is nearly illegible.  


_It’s been a day now. I’m angry at him, so so so angry and I don’t know how I’m ever supposed to get over it. It’s selfish, but you know what, in this instance I think I deserve to be at least a little selfish. God knows he certainly was. It’s a tough position to be in, these violent emotions clashing within me. Endless love warring with the anger and the pain and the betrayal. He said no one here would have been able to give him shared life experience. I mean, I exist. I’m here. I’ve been here for him every second that I was able to for my entire life. Maybe our lives haven’t been identical but I know damn well that Peggy Carter couldn’t give him the kind of shared life experience that I could. And that brings me to the crux of it. He would never and has never considered anything like that with me. He thinks of a relationship and he thinks of women as his only option. And so he’s straight… that’s fine, I guess. You can’t control what you’re attracted to. Clearly. But there have been times over the years when I could have sworn I saw things… things that didn’t add up to that result. Maybe I was projecting, maybe I was looking for blind hope and attached myself to ideas and images that never existed outside my own mind._  


“Man, if it wasn’t already glaringly obvious that you’re gay by the bomber jacket and skinny jeans you wore to Stark’s funeral, the fact that you’re depression listening to this kind of music after getting basically dumped definitely confirms it.”  


Bucky glares at Sam and shuts the notebook with a snap, too tired to really care that apparently his sexuality was clear to anyone who looked. Not that it matters now, since apparently that kind of thing is okay now. About a hundred years too late for him. He’s already lost all his chances. “Go away, I hate you.”  


“I think you hurt Steve’s feelings,” Sam didn’t go away. He sat down next to Bucky, his legs crossed. Hovering like the annoying therapist fly he is.  


“Well, he hurt my feelings so I guess that makes us even, Samuel.” The Winter Soldier had never sulked, hadn’t even known how. But damn if Bucky Barnes wasn’t a melodramatic son of a bitch and he would pout and resent this as much as he wanted to.  


“You think he didn’t hurt mine?” Sam gazes out across the lake. “I put on a brave face in front of him and it’s been so long for him that he doesn’t even know me well enough to notice it. But I lost my best friend too, Bucky. The difference was you knew he was going to do it and I didn’t. He didn’t care enough to bother to tell me.” The only tell of emotion on his face was the muscle twitch as he tightened his jaw. “I’m not blind; I know you’re in love with him. Or were in love with the him that was. I know this is harder on you than it is on me and it is _damn_ hard on me. You have a right to feel however you want. Your pain is your own. But I’m not really sure it’s worth it to take it out on him. If he were still…the way he was yesterday morning, then yeah, sure. Hell, I’d even join you in ripping him a new one. But he’s not the same. He’s not our Steve and he never will be again. I don’t know that it’s worth the fight and the risk of losing what little of him that we still have.”  


“There’s nothing of him left for me, Sam,” Bucky wraps his arms around his knees. His lungs don’t want to work, don’t want to draw in air, stuttering on every inhale and exhale. Even his body knows that he’s adrift without an anchor without Steve. “You’re willing to try and have him as your friend again and that’s great. Good for you. But for all that I thought I would have forgiven him anything… I’m not sure I can ever move past this. I can’t even look at him without feeling sick. You were right,” he laughs, bitter, looking over at the other man. “I am in love with him. Or I was. But I was never going to be enough for him. Not even as a friend.  


“I gave him _everything_ I could to make him happy, my entire life. I was seventeen years old working fifteen hour shifts seven days a week just so he didn’t have to. So he wouldn’t die. So we could afford food and medicine and heat in the winter. I threw myself in the paths of bullets time and time again during the war to keep him out of them even though he would have healed from it faster than I did because I couldn’t bear the thought of him being hurt. And I would have willingly kept doing all these things, every day, for as long as I lived and I would have died and found him in another life and done them all again. Over and over for all of eternity because he has been the closest thing I could ever come to describing as a soulmate. At least on my end. And it still wasn’t enough to make him care or stay. I think this time… I think I’m done. I think I’m going to wash my hands of him and make it the cleanest possible break that I can. Because I _cannot_ watch him waste away and die and be able to do nothing about it. I have nothing left to give and no one left to care.”  


Sam is silent for a long time. The song loops twice before he speaks again, gripping Bucky’s flesh shoulder lightly in his left hand. “I know I’m not Steve and I never will be. I didn’t know you as a child. But even though we fuss and fight, I do consider you one of my close friends. I do care about you. You’re not alone. Even without him. I’ll be here. For whatever it’s worth.”  


“Thank you,” he whispers, hoarse. “I’ll never say it again, but. Thank you. And it goes both ways, you know. We’ll figure out how to move on together.”  


“I know we will,” Sam pushes to his feet, his hands deep in his jacket pockets. He starts to walk back toward the cabin but stops and smirks back at Bucky. “If you’re looking for anymore sad country breakup songs, try the album Red by Taylor Swift. I think it’ll resonate with you.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enter: 2012 Steve
> 
> I'm gonna make this a happy ending for everyone if it goddamn kills me but they've gotta struggle a little first so that they _really_ appreciate it when they finally get to it.

_2012, in a different timeline_

Steve wakes up in the med bay at Stark Tower. Natasha Romanoff is sitting by his bedside, changed into sweats and a tank top, clearly having showered because she’s no longer wearing dust and alien guts. She looks for all the world as if she belongs there, as if she were a family member, concern written all over her face as she watches him. He groans and pushes himself into a sitting position. His head is pounding to one beat, repeating the same words over and over and over again: _Bucky is alive. Bucky is alive. Bucky is alive_. “Romanoff-”

And then the other version of himself steps through the doorway, a briefcase dangling from one hand, Thor’s hammer dangling from the other. Huh. This Steve is significantly more battered and tired looking than the one he had fought only hours before and his suit is different. White and red with the Avengers logo on it. And the hammer thing is… interesting. Maybe he should try to lift it before Thor takes off back to Asgard with it. They stare at each other for a long moment, before Other Steve sighs and sets down the things he’s carrying on a table next to the door to reach into his pocket and pull out… a handful of tiny things that he somehow manages to grow into a tablet, a notebook, and a file folder with the click of a button on his suit. “Before you try and fight me again, I thought I should tell you that I really am you. Just… from the future. In a different timeline, where we’ve figured out time travel. Nat wouldn’t let me in here with you if I hadn’t already proved it to her.” His face is entirely shuttered, closed off when he looks at the red headed spy. But Steve knows that look, that desperation, because he’s seen it on his own face in the mirror every day since he came out of the ice. That’s their expression that says _I’ve lost everything and I have nothing left to fight for_. 

“He’s telling the truth,” the redhead speaks up. She doesn’t look over her shoulder at the other version of Steve, but apparently they’ve already talked and she doesn’t need to. “I’m going to talk with Tony but you should listen to what he has to say.” She pats his hand and stands, her hips swaying as she walks past Other Steve and out the door. 

They stare at each other silently for a long minute. 

Finally Other Steve sighs, slumps into the chair that Natasha had been occupying. “I was told not to change anything in the timelines when I bring the stones back to the points that we took them from but…well this timeline has already been changed and that’s out of my control. Loki took the Tesseract and I can’t even begin to predict what kind of outcome that might have. So I figured, hey what the hell? Might as well go all in and do what I can to help your timeline and your Bucky out how I can.” He holds up the notebook. “I wrote down everything I thought you might need to know. For this timeline… and for mine, should you be unable to find him or save him here.” 

“ _Save him_?” Steve’s heart is beating too fast, his chest too tight and breathing uneven like back before the serum had cured his asthma. He was probably going to start wheezing at any moment. Bucky. Alive. Alive, alive, alive. “What am I saving him from?” 

Other Steve smiles, achingly sad. “Here? Himself.” He hesitates, as though he wants to say something more but decides not to, shaking his head. “There are things that I can’t tell you. Things you have no reason to ever need to know unless things don’t fall into place how they should. And in that case, you’ll find your way to that knowledge. I know you will, because you’re me, and I know exactly what you’re feeling and exactly how far you’re willing to go for him. And I know how much power he has to hurt you. So just… be careful.” His eyes are _haunted_. “I know you think you’ve seen a lot, but you have so long to go before you can rest. Remember that it’s okay to be selfish and it’s okay to rest. Don’t be like me.” He places the notebook, file, and tablet on the end of the bed and stands. “I’m on my way to get my happy ending. I really hope that this helps you find yours just a little sooner.” 

“Can you not talk in riddles?” Nothing about any of that speech was helpful; it just served to confuse him more. “Tell me where he is!” 

“It’s all in the notebook. Read it after I’m gone.” Other Steve grabs the briefcase, and tries to grab the hammer, but it doesn’t budge when he goes to lift it. His face pales about fifteen shades, leaving him positively _grey_ , but he shrugs and glances back. “Maybe it’s here for you instead now. Try to be worthy of it.” A mask, similar to the Iron Man helmet covers his face and something clatters to the ground just before he disappears into thin air.

Steve is on his feet and across the room as soon as he’s out of sight, ignoring the way his head pounds with every movement. He stares at the hammer a beat too long before glancing down at the floor, to whatever Other Steve had dropped. At first look, it appears to be a watch, but when he bends down and picks it up, it has no clock face, not even a digital one like the watches he’s seen Stark wear. But it could be just because it’s technology from the future. Like, the _future_ future. More future than the future that he’s already living in and trying to adjust to. He shoves it into the pocket of the sweatpants someone had changed him into while he was knocked out. Tony can look at it later and figure it out. 

He looks back at the hammer. 

_Try to be worthy of it. Maybe it’s here for you now instead._

Granted, he hadn’t even tried to lift the hammer that Thor already had, the one that wasn’t this duplicate of it. But he had overheard the Asgardian explaining it to some SHIELD agents that only those who were worthy could lift it, and that if they could, then they would be able to wield it and the power of thunder. Then he had watched as all three wide eyed agents had grunted and pulled, trying with all their might to lift it while Thor laughed at them. The hammer hadn’t budged. 

His hand trembles when he reaches out and grasps the handle. 

And lifts it from the table easy as anything. 

His breath catches hard in his chest. It’s almost as if it’s alive in his hand, the energy radiating up and down his arm. Like it’s calling to him, begging to be useful, to bring down lightning bolts or to help him soar through the skies. 

Worthy. 

It’s a little sickening to wonder what exactly Other Steve had done in the time between entering this room and leaving it to make him not worthy any longer. 

He sets the hammer back on the table, despite the way his fingers don’t want to let go, and lunges back toward the bed to grab the notebook. When he flips it open, dozens of photographs flutter to the floor from between the pages. He catches one as it falls, turns it in his hand to look at it, and could swear his heart stops right there. It’s _himself_ and _Bucky_ standing shirtless in front of a waterfall in some exotic looking country, their arms looped around each other’s shoulders, grinning ear to ear. Bucky’s left arm is gone. His hair is long and he looks more tired than Steve has ever seen him, but he’s _smiling_ and _alive_.

He doesn’t even realize he’s crying until Natasha’s slim hand slides into his and squeezes as she tugs the photograph away, out of the path of his falling tears. He barely knows her but even that is enough to know she’s shaken when her voice trembles, “He told me that you and I become best friends. He also told me I’m dead in his timeline. That I… sacrificed myself to save the world.” She’s smiling when he glances down at her, but her lips are strained, tight around the edges. “Guess the Avengers are gonna stick together for a while, huh? Friends?” 

And she’s the first person in this century to look at him and think of him as a friend and maybe it’s only because his alternate version from the future told her she had to be. But it still alarmingly makes his chest feel like it’s about to cave in on itself and he kind of wants to hug her and cry on her shoulder because he’s just so _tired_ and overwhelmed and hopeful and what the fuck they were being attacked by an actual alien army a few hours ago. 

And Bucky is alive. 

That’s his only priority from here on out. 

He shudders and wipes his face on his sleeve. “Yeah, okay. Friends.” He ignores the pictures scattered at his feet- there will be time to study each one later, to desperately hope for what might be- and turns his attention to the words on the first page of the notebook. Words in his handwriting that he didn’t write. Natasha cranes her neck, reading with him. He doesn’t care. 

_Steve, sorry for beating you up and knocking you out with the scepter. I did say I didn’t want to hurt you though. I hope this makes up for it? In my timeline, in the year 2014 I was living in DC when I discovered that Hydra didn’t die with the Valkyrie, but had been growing inside SHIELD since the 60s. I’ve written down every active Hydra base we uncovered, you’ll find that further on in this book, but it’s not relevant to this letter. The STRIKE team is Hydra, so are Alexander Pierce and Jasper Sitwell. They discovered that Natasha and I had found them out and they sent an assassin after us. His alias is the Winter Soldier. He is Bucky. When Bucky was captured by Zola in ’43, the experiments done on him helped him survive the fall from the train. Russian soldiers found him at the bottom and he ended up with Hydra again. They tortured and brainwashed him to the point that he remembered nothing, not even his own name. Turned him into the perfect killing machine. He’s credited with dozens of assassinations and most of the intelligence community doesn’t believe he exists because of how good he is. He’s a ghost story. I don’t know exactly where he was being kept in 2012, but I’ve done the first step for you, wedged our foot in the door so to say. I had to convince the STRIKE team that I was Hydra too to get the scepter away from them. I assure you it was necessary, the fate of my timeline relied on our borrowing it from yours. I hope they’re more likely to trust you now, but if they find out that it wasn’t you, but me that was the one that said the words Hail Hydra to them and if they figure out you now know that they’re corrupt then watch out. Their first move will probably be to send the Winter Soldier against you. I can’t try to predict how that will turn out. I broke my Bucky free from his brainwashing by letting him nearly kill me and then telling him “I’m with you till the end of the line”. I can’t guarantee it will work in your timeline. And we had technology by the time I finally caught up to him that helped decondition him from turning into a killing machine if anyone said a handful of trigger words to him. I don’t know that it’s been invented yet in your timeline or if you even have the connections to access it. Tony should be the first person you talk to about that. He can be abrasive but he’s a good friend. Trust him. I gave him a letter too, when I returned what I took. He might be upset for a while after he reads it, but I think he’ll come around. He can help you track down your Bucky too. But in case something goes wrong and you can’t find him or something happens to him… I think I have a solution for that too. You’ll find that in another letter in a sealed envelope at the back of this notebook, but please don’t open it unless you absolutely cannot salvage your timeline’s Bucky. Oh, and I dropped a device on purpose as I left. Don’t lose it, it goes with the letter. The file is all the information we were able to locate on the Winter Soldier in my timeline. The tablet has classified info that also goes with the alternate plan. You won’t be able to unlock it without the password which is in the other letter. But seriously. Do not open that letter unless things go very, very wrong in this timeline. I’m serious. You’re not going to like it._

__

_All my best, Steve._

__

_PS. I included just about every photograph I have with Bucky from my timeline. Thought you might need to see to believe. He’s broken in a million new ways, but he’s still ours._

He lowers the notebook with shaking hands. “I think I’m gonna be sick.” He had died for _nothing_. Hydra was still alive and apparently thriving. The only thing his death had done was leave Bucky entirely to the Winter Soldier’s fate. He could have saved him. They could have gone _home_. He could have had Bucky and Peggy and the Howlies. And he gave it all up and for what? He didn’t save a damn thing. He _failed_ them. 

Natasha is pale, her gaze darting back and forth from the book to the security cameras, to the hammer that Other Steve had been forced to leave behind. “I think we probably have more to worry about than Loki escaping,” She mutters, so low that it’s only by the grace of his super hearing that he catches the words at all. Her head is bent, angled so that her hair shields her mouth from the cameras. “SHIELD- Hydra- has access to the security feed. They’ll know by now that there were visitors from another time and place and they’ll know you know about the Winter Soldier.” She drops his hand abruptly, leaning down to scoop the photographs off the floor and shoving them inside the file. It joins the tablet, tucked under her arm. “Grab that hammer; I know you can lift it. I saw you. Some agent collected your shield when we found you unconscious and I’d feel better if we’re both armed so I hope you’re as much of a natural with it as you are with that glorified Frisbee.” 

“What’s your plan, Romanoff?” He flexes his fingers at his side and thinks, _come to me_ and the hammer flies into his grasp. If he didn’t have so much other to worry about, he might be smug about it. 

“You can call me Natasha. I think we’re there.” She turns on her heel and strides out of the room. “There are still some secure rooms in this tower; Tony’s lab is one of them. We get there, we talk to him. Hopefully we don’t run into Hydra on the way.” 

He matches her stride, shifting his grip on the hammer, swinging it in time with his steps. It’s incredibly well balanced, heavy enough that it doesn’t feel like holding a toy but light enough to easily wield in a fight. “I thought you went to Tony’s lab when you left me with…him.” 

“I lied, I was listening to your conversation,” Natasha smirks, “and he knew it too. He really does seem to know me well enough to know most of my tricks.” 

It’s kind of surreal, the idea that he would be that close to the Black Widow at some point in the future to know when she’s lying. To predict the moves of one of the deadliest spies in history. He hums in response, his gaze scanning the hallway. It’s deserted for the most part, only a few employees in dusty business casual dress talking at the far end. So far, so good. “What else did he tell you to make you believe him?” 

She doesn’t stop, but her stride falters. “It wasn’t what he said. It was the way he hugged me and cried. He meant it.” 

“Huh.” He supposes he can see where he might end up clicking well with Natasha. She reminds him of Peggy and of Bucky in a way. The same spunky attitude, even if she hides hers behind a more demure face. 

They reach the elevator; make it down to Tony’s lab with no issues. If Hydra has found them out already, then they certainly haven’t had time to make a move on it. Tony is slumped over one of his work tables, a glass of amber liquid in one hand and a crumpled letter in the other. He ought to be in the medical bay, after the whole fighting aliens and sending a nuke to space thing, but here he is. Eyes red rimmed and face pale enough the dark circles under his eyes could be bruises. 

He holds up the letter, not looking at Steve or Natasha. “We have a tumultuous future ahead of us, Cap, if your alter ego is to be believed. Come on over, have a read. Find out for yourself just exactly what your _friend_ has done. He told me he didn’t put it in your letter, so that you wouldn’t have the chance to keep it from me, like he did from his Tony in his reality.” He doesn’t wait for Steve to even take a step toward him before he flings the letter down on the table, downs what’s left of his liquor, and starts to pace. “Your brainwashed assassin of a best friend _murdered_ my mom and dad. That’s what he did, Steve. And according to other you, he still expects me to help you find him and rehabilitate him.” 

Steve sits down hard on the nearest rolling stool. Maybe a little too hard. It rolls out from under him. He sits on the floor instead. “Howard-” He’d known Howard Stark had died long before he came out of the ice, known he’d gone out in a car crash, assumedly due to driving drunk. “That was _Bucky_?”

“Under other circumstances, the fact that the most legendary assassin of all time is named Bucky would be hilarious to me,” Tony sighs. Pours another glass of booze. “The kicker is that other you knew me well enough to put all the gory details of Barnes’ torture and unmaking in the letter _before_ he dropped the delightful little tidbit regarding my parents. So now I feel like I’m not even allowed to blame the guy, because you know what? I was tortured once. I lasted about fifteen minutes. This guy… your friend… he’s lasted seventy years and apparently there’s still a person in that shell to be saved.” 

“Yeah, well, no offense, Steve, but I think we have bigger things to worry about at the moment.” Natasha mutters, pushing herself up to sit on the edge of one of the work tables. A small robot on wheels whirrs over to her, nudging against her dangling legs. She glances over Tony’s letter, her expression tight. “I see he went ahead and put the Hydra info in here for you. We don’t have to bring you up to speed.” 

Steve is starting to feel the weight of the day. The serum fixed every ailment he had and yet he’s sitting here on the cold concrete floor of Stark’s lab and his body is burning up just as much as if he had scarlet fever again. His chest is refusing to draw breath just as much as it had during any asthma attack. His ears buzz, the overhead lighting is too harsh, too bright. If Bucky were here, his hands would be ghosting over Steve’s shoulders, running gently down his spine. He’d say, _breathe, Stevie. Breathe with me. In and out, that’s it. Here, you can touch my hair_. But Bucky isn’t here; he’s locked up with Hydra somewhere out there, tortured and brainwashed to the point that he doesn’t even know who he is or who Steve is and fuck Steve really needs to pull himself together because he has to _find him_. 

Dimly, as if his voice is coming from the end of a very long tunnel, Stark says, “Uh… I think Cap is having a panic attack.” 

A British voice says something about elevated vitals. 

He still can’t breathe. He might crawl out of his skin. There’s just too much. He didn’t even get the chance to process the fucking alien attack before this whole thing with Hydra and Bucky got dropped on him. 

_You have so long to go before you can rest._

“Cap? Hey, Rogers.” 

“ _Steve_.”

He shudders hard, every muscle in his body tensed. Electricity crackles up and down his arm. 

“Maybe put down the hammer before you fry us all?” 

The hammer doesn’t _want_ to be put down. His fingers refuse to uncurl from around the handle. 

“Maybe get Thor in here…”

“In case you’ve already forgotten, this place is apparently crawling with Hydra agents, Tony.” Natasha. She kneels in front of him, taking up his entire blurry field of vision. “Steve, hey, look at me.” 

He looks. Blearily. His body is heavy. 

“I realize this is all a lot for you to process, but I’m gonna need you to focus. Tell me how to help you.” 

It takes him a few minutes but he manages to gasp out, “can I touch your hair?”

Natasha quirks an eyebrow at him. “Only if you put down the hammer; I don’t really relish the idea of having to deal with it standing on end if you accidentally electrocute me.” 

It’s like a thousand tiny fish hooks are embedded in his palm, keeping his hand wrapped around Mjolnir’s handle, but he grimaces, uncurls his fingers, and the hammer drops to the floor with a hollow thud. Natasha grasps his now free hand and guides it to the side of her head, letting him plunge his fingers into her hair. It’s softer than it looks and it winds around his fingers the way Bucky’s used to, unfairly curly and tempting. He breathes a little easier. 

“Do you know how to braid?” 

Natasha’s question hurts, just a little. Just another reminder of the life he’d left behind. “I do. Bucky’s little sister- Becca- She taught me. I would plait her hair before school. Sometimes Bucky would let me do his too. He kept it longer before the Army.” 

She pulls away from him, just enough to turn around and sit with her back to him. “Go ahead then.” 

His fingers tremble just slightly as he parts the curls into two sections. Tony is sitting at his work bench again, alternately staring at them like they’ve both lost their minds and looking through the notebook and file that Other Steve had brought with him. He carefully twists Natasha’s hair into two french braids and she somehow procures elastic bands for him to tie them off with at the nape of her neck, the tails of the braids twisted around his pinky finger into perfect ringlets. It’s soothing. 

He doesn’t move to stand from the floor, even though he’s confident he can keep it together now and Natasha doesn’t move either, just shifts to cross her legs, rest her elbows on her knees, and prop her chin in her hands. The little robot that had been nudging her legs earlier rolls up to her and pushes itself against her side. In sloppy writing across its side, the words _clingy baby_ are painted in bright sunflower yellow. Natasha ignores it.

Steve’s voice is hoarse when he finally speaks. “What do we do now?” He’s supposed to be the tactical genius of the century- at least according to Coulson- but he is so beyond out of his element here, he doesn’t even have a single idea of where to go. Just a burning, urgent need to get to Bucky, as quickly as humanly possible. He can’t even really care too much about Hydra being in SHIELD right now. 

Tony sighs. “I think we need to get off the grid.” 


	3. Chapter 3

They explode on day three. 

Bucky is smoking a cigarette on the porch when Steve steps out of the front door, his back bent with age but his shoulders set with that goddamn stubborn determination that he had always been driven by. He exhales a puff of smoke and glances at the old man as he comes to stand beside him. “I hope the serum is still fixing your lungs because I’m not goddamn putting my smoke out until it’s too short to hold. I _deserve_ it for dealing with this politely rather than throwing something at you which is what I really want to do.” 

“Buck…Bucky. You knew I wasn’t coming back. I couldn’t keep going the way I was. I needed her, needed the Howlies. I thought you understood….” Steve grips his wrist with an age spotted hand. “I never wanted to hurt you. I would never do that on purpose. Come on, you know me.” 

Bucky jerks his arm away, stepping back. He’s breathing too harshly and he’s about to say things that are going to hurt both of them but maybe it’s exactly what Steve deserves to hear. And Sam isn’t around to interrupt them today, he had left to go visit his mother, who hadn’t been dusted in the snap and was desperate to see him again. “You know what, Steve? No, I don’t know you. I don’t know a _thing_ about you. You’re just some guy I used to be friends with but for you it was eighty years ago and for me it was a few days. You’re not the same person I grew up with. You’re not even the same person who went to hell and back to break me free from being the Winter Soldier. I look at you and I see a stranger, a person who didn’t care enough to even try when we finally, _finally_ got a chance to be happy. I’m afraid to even ask if you bothered to rescue me from Hydra back in the forties in your new timeline or if you were too busy playing fucking house to bother. You’re not the same person I knew. You’ve lived your life already and you know what? Mine is just now starting. You _chose_ not to be a part of that and I don’t owe you a damn thing. You needed her and the Howlies, but you didn’t need me and I don’t need you. Despite the fact that we were supposed to be the end of the line for each other and that I would have _never_ turned my back on that like you did.” He flicks his cigarette butt into the ashtray, gritting his teeth together. If nothing else, he has to find out this one answer. This time when he speaks, instead of being gruff, nearly shouting, his voice is soft and it shakes. “Tell me you got me out, Steve. Tell me you didn’t let them erase me.” 

Steve doesn’t meet his gaze. 

“Tell me, or I swear to god I will punch you. I don’t give a fuck how old you are.” He’s going to be sick. The bile is rising in the back of his throat with every violent twist of his stomach. It isn’t the face of Bucky Barnes that Steve would see if he turned to look at him now. It’s wholly and entirely the cold, empty gaze of the Asset. The one that struck fear into the hearts of even the toughest men. 

“I knew- I knew if I went and got you out, it would have consequences for the future of that reality. You shaped the century. I couldn’t…I couldn’t change that and have the world end up looking like any semblance of what it’s supposed to be.” 

His ears are buzzing. _you shaped the century_. Words straight from the mouth of Alexander Pierce. Not hard to guess who Steve had been spending his time with. Doubtful that he did anything about Hydra growing in SHIELD right under his nose either. “You make me sick.” He couldn’t even look at him and see the same person and he was pretty sure that any other version of Steve at any point in his past wouldn’t have hesitated to kick this Steve’s ass. Even skinny asthmatic Steve would have decked this Steve. Really it was a miracle that Bucky was managing to hold back. Bucky really had no idea what had happened to him between the first snap and the second, but whatever it was, it had changed Steve to this unrecognizable…thing. 

“You would have understood if you had been there,” 

“Well, I wasn’t there, was I, Steven? Because you wanted to get away from your best friends so fucking badly that you ran off to the past without even asking me, someone who is also a man out of time in this future, if I wanted to go with you.” Didn’t want to change the future too much his _ass_. Like going back in time and living through all that with Peggy wouldn’t have influenced the founding of SHIELD. “And no, I wouldn’t have understood if I had been there. I will never be able to understand and I will never be able to forgive this. So I am leaving. Today. Sam won’t be back for another week, but you should be just fine. You’ve managed all alone for this long. It’s exactly what you wanted.” 

He doesn’t really have any personal possessions. Just a few changes of clothes, toiletries, weapons, his phone and his journal. Easy enough to throw in a backpack. At least Steve had given him the keys to his motorcycle when he decided to be a backstabbing little bitch and it’s bitterly satisfying to stalk past him, raking his hair into a bun. He straddles the bike and casts one last look at the old man on the porch. Steve is watching him blankly, more shock than sadness or regret on his face. Bucky clenches his teeth. “Don’t put me on your funeral invitee list. I won’t come anyway.” 

***

He drives for a long time, makes it all the way to Vermont before he pulls over on the side of a dirt road and breaks down. He kneels in the dirt and cries into his hands, deep wracking sobs that shake his whole body. He can’t _breathe_ , can’t stop shaking, can’t imagine how he’s supposed to keep living when he feels like _this_. This bone deep hatred of himself, the knowledge that Steve absolutely could not stand being around him so much that he let Bucky still be tortured by Hydra and become the Winter Soldier. His chest is splitting open from the inside out, pouring blood from invisible wounds. He needs… he needs to hurt. Needs something to ground him here in the present. To remind him that he’s been through worse and will get through this. 

He’s reaching for a knife when his phone rings. 

It almost falls from his trembling hands and it takes him embarrassingly long to manage to swipe his finger across the screen to answer Sam’s call. “S-Sam?” 

“Hey, Bucky. Steve called me and said you took off and that you were extremely upset. I’ve been trying to get ahold of you for a few hours now. Are you okay?” 

He breathes deeply through his nose but his chest is still hitching and his voice is shot to hell. “I- I’m somewhere in Vermont. I… I can’t go back there. I refuse to see him again.” 

“Alright,” Sam has his therapist voice on now, unnervingly calming and encouraging. “Can you tell me why? And are you safe where you are?” 

“I’m the Winter fucking Soldier, of course I’m safe.” 

“I didn’t mean from outside threats.” 

Oh. Well that… he doesn’t look at the knife he had been planning on using only seconds before. “Just keep talking, Wilson, I’m getting there.” He wedges the phone between his shoulder and his ear and pinches the skin on his palm between his metal fingers, not enough to bruise, but enough to calm him down and get his breathing under control. It’s totally not the same thing as what he was planning on doing with the knife, so it doesn’t count. His voice still shakes when he speaks again, interrupting Sam rambling about the dinner his Ma is making. “Steve told me that he left the version of me in his new timeline with Hydra. He could have stopped them from torturing and brainwashing me and making me this _thing_ but he didn’t because he thought that what I did under their orders was too important in influencing how the world turned out and he didn’t think it was right to change any of it. I told him not to send me an invite to his funeral and stormed off on the bike. You can’t make me go back or see him again. I won’t do it.” 

There was a thin line between love and hate. Bucky was pretty sure he’d crossed over into the latter now. 

“You don’t have to. God, now I don’t even wanna see him again. That’s fucked up, man. He didn’t say anything to me about that when he called me and told me you had left. Where do you plan on going now?” 

“I don’t know.” Maybe he’d call Shuri. See if there was still any place for him in Wakanda; anyone who needed help tending livestock. It had been… calming in a way. Not really something that would have lasted long term- he was and always would be too much of a city boy to settle for that lifestyle. 

“Alright, well, how about you come and stay with me at my mother’s, at least for the rest of the week and we’ll figure out where to go from there? Ma won’t mind, in fact she’d probably be beside herself with joy to have another person to praise her cooking. We’re in Harlem. You could visit Brooklyn while you’re here. Home is home, you know?” 

“Yeah. Home is home.” Only Brooklyn hadn’t been home, Steve had been home. And that was gone forever. “Sure, what the hell, why not? Send me the address.” 

There’s a moment of silence and his phone buzzes in his hand with an incoming text. He’s been driving entirely the wrong direction, but maybe it’s what he needed. At least the scenery is pretty, the leaves just starting to be painted in shades of autumn. “It’ll be late afternoon before I get there.” 

“That’s fine. Just in time for supper. Any favorite foods you wanna request?” 

“I’ll eat whatever.” Honestly, way back before the war, they’d been too poor to really afford much beyond boiled potatoes and cabbage most days and then as the Winter Soldier, he’d subsisted on IV nutrient cocktails. After, it had taken him well over a year to condition his body to even the blandest solid foods and even now, even with the serum, he still gets sick to his stomach half the time he eats. He’s 106 years old and he’s never had the chance to have a favorite food. Now _that’s_ depressing. 

“Hm,” Sam hums. “Alright, see you soon.” 

After they hang up, Bucky sits in the dirt a few minutes longer. He’s drained, tired of existing, tired of losing every time he thinks he’s finally getting close to something good. But his mother had drilled it into him, time and time again growing up that no matter how bad it gets, you don’t give up, you hold yourself together and keep going. You don’t let your circumstances break you. Someone out there always has it worse. 

When Hydra had first started training him to be the Soldier, before Bucky Barnes got erased, he’d gotten kind of bitter over that. Pretty sure there was no one else who had it worse than he did. But he never gave up. 

It’s really hard not to give up sometimes. 

He misses his mother. 

Despite the fact that he’s as likely to crash the damn bike straight into the first oncoming diesel as he is to actually drive to the city at this point, he gets back on the road. His hair has long since blown out of the bun he put it in and it flies around his face, tangled and obscuring his vision. Wind rushes in his ears. 

The sun has set by the time he parks in front of the brownstone townhouse in Harlem. Even in the dark, it’s easy to see that the city had taken a hard hit after the snap. New York isn’t exactly known for its shining clean streets, but there is trash _everywhere_. Trees and shrubbery are overgrown, shattered glass on the sidewalks under broken windows, people wandering around with empty eyes and lost expressions. It’s every bit the apocalyptic scene one might imagine when they think of the end of the world. And yeah, it’s been reversed but that’s gonna bring about its own set of problems. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out that there’s not gonna be enough resources to support the sudden resurrection of half the planet’s population. 

Maybe that’s a project for him. Something to get him out of his own mind and help him move on. Help him help others. 

“Are you coming in or are you gonna stare morosely at the cockroach colony in that pile of trash until the day you die?” 

He looks up and Sam is leaning against the doorway, one ankle in front of the other, arms crossed over his chest. A German shepherd is sitting at his feet, tongue lolling out one side of its mouth. “Didn’t know you had a dog.” Bucky takes the steep stairs in a few steps and bends down to rub the dog’s head with his flesh hand. Its fur is softer than Bucky’s own hair is. Well cared for. 

“Oh, yeah, this is Zeus.” Sam rolls his eyes when the dog jumps to his feet, taking Bucky’s ministrations as permission to start licking his face. “My mom got him after… everything. For emotional support. He’s a big lazy baby though.” 

“I love him.” Bucky lets Zeus practically climb into his lap, runs both hands through his fur. And laughs. 

Sam squints at him but shakes his head and holds out a hand to help haul Bucky to his feet. Not that he needs it, but the sentiment is nice. “C’mon. Dinner should be ready in about half an hour. Enough time for you to have a shower and dump your stuff in the spare room. I hope you brought your own shampoo and toothbrush and stuff?” 

“Yeah, in my bag.” Bucky follows Sam into the house. It’s the type of place that had been a slum back in the day but now would cost millions to buy. “You know, this guy I used to make time with lived around here… he died from injuries he got in the second Harlem riot. Right before I shipped out.” 

“Weren’t interracial relationships illegal back then?” Sam stops at the foot of the stairs, looking more interested in this tidbit of information than he probably should. “Or was he just a random white kid who lived in the black neighborhood?” 

“I mean, same sex relationships were illegal too. You might say I was a rebel. His name was Malachi and he actually looked a little like you; taller though,” Bucky smirks at him, “didn’t have a gap between his teeth either.” 

“I can’t tell if you’re insinuating that you find me attractive or if you’re insulting me.” 

“You’re not ugly,” he pats Sam’s cheek with the metal hand, “but you’re not Malachi.” 

And he might be Captain America now, but he certainly wasn’t Steve Rogers. 

Malachi had been great, and he’d definitely been in love with Bucky. But it was a doomed relationship from the beginning even not taking the laws into account. Because he could have offered Bucky the world on a silver platter and Bucky would have accepted it only to turn around and hand it to Steve instead. He’d dated around, desperate and willing to try anything that might help him distance himself from how he felt about his best friend. It never worked. At the end of the day, no matter how far he strayed, he always came back home to Steve. 

It was always Steve.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> listen i hope yall are ready for me to be the biggest sam!cap supporter because i am literally so excited for where his character gets to go now. also we are zeus stans first and humans second, thank you for coming to my TEDtalk.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so this chapter is really filler-y and feels repetitive to me and i kind of hate it? but i criticize myself worse than anyone else can possibly criticize me so maybe it's good? idk. i kind of wanted to focus more on developing relationships at this point and i may come back and rewrite this entire thing at some point in the future after i've finished it. only time can tell. be nice to me pls and thx and i'll try to make the next chapters more exciting :D

Tony’s definition of ‘off the grid’ turns out to be a mansion on a private island somewhere off the coast of Hawaii. 

“What?” He _flounces_ down the jet’s stairs, sliding on a pair of pink sunglasses and unbuttoning his suit jacket. “Did you think I was taking us to a shack in the middle of nowhere without electricity or running water? I had this place set up after I was kidnapped and held for ransom that one time. Thought I might need an escape house to go to if they came after me again before I got the Iron Man suit up and running. Nobody knows it’s here except Pepper and Happy, it’s on its own secure network- not even accessible from my servers back in Malibu or New York but it still has access to the resources we’re gonna need to even have a hope of hunting down your boy. What were you planning to do? Stand in the street waiting for Hydra to send him after you like a hunting dog?” 

“If that was what it took,” Steve mutters, glaring at the sweatpants he’s still wearing. They’d taken a private elevator straight up to the jet on the roof from Tony’s lab. There certainly wasn’t time for him to go across the city to pack for _vacation_. He doesn’t even have his shield. It really is a beautiful place, palm trees, white sand beaches, and miles and miles of aquamarine ocean. In another life, he might have wanted to sit down near the water with his pencils and a sketchbook and draw to his heart’s content. But for all that he’d tried to draw in the weeks following his defrosting, it never felt the same and it was like dragging the pencil through tar trying to put lines to paper. “We left New York in ruins in the aftermath of an alien attack to do…what? Go surfing?” 

“Hey, I think you’d be a natural on a surfboard.” Natasha grins at him, tilting her face up to the sun. She’d slept almost the entire flight. It had hit him about three hours in that even as intimidating and skilled as she was, she was only human. She had no serum to keep her going even when others would have collapsed in exhaustion, she didn’t have a fancy high tech suit like Stark. All she had was her guns and her training and she had been in the thick of the fight just as much as he had been. He’d covered her with a blanket and sat quietly next to her for the rest of the flight, studying every photo that Other Steve had given him of Bucky. 

His favorite is the one of Bucky sitting cross legged on a tree stump, his hair pulled up in a half bun, and a fucking baby goat in his lap, drinking milk from a bottle. 

“Bruce, Clint, and Thor are all still there to hold down the fort.” 

“So we’re just gonna drink margaritas on a beach and leave our team members to deal with all the fallout, including Hydra?” Steve rolls his eyes, tightens his grip on the hammer. He hadn’t dared touch it throughout the plane ride, scared that he would unwittingly summon lightning and cause them to crash. One time experiencing that was enough for him, thanks. “Great plan, Tony.” He’s sweaty and hot and there are still alien guts in his hair and Bucky is out there somewhere and he needs to be searching for him, not kicking back on a lounge chair in the lap of luxury. If he even remotely knew how, he would be using the hammer to fly himself out of here, but he doesn’t. 

“You’re going to drink margaritas on the beach. Natasha and I will be busy hacking into SHIELD’s secure files to find your boyfriend.” Tony turns on his heel and strides toward the mansion. “And figuring out a plan for the whole Hydra business, of course, but I think we can pass that off to Fury. Your future self didn’t say anything about him being corrupt so I think we can safely assume he’s just an asshole, but a trustworthy one.” 

“I trust him,” Natasha says. 

“Why can’t I help?” There’s no way they’re expecting him to just sit around doing nothing while they do all the work. He genuinely, literally, physically cannot do that. 

“Do you even know how to use a computer?” 

He scowls. “I can learn. I have to do _something_ , Tony, please.” It’s easy enough to keep step with the other man, Natasha coming up on his other side. “It’s my fault this happened to him. I have to do what I can to get him back.” 

“It’s not your fault, Steve.” Natasha grabs his wrist, yanking him to face her. It only works because he isn’t expecting it. “I read his file, okay? The report from when he fell? You couldn’t have stopped it. It’s a miracle you didn’t fall too.” 

Not a miracle at all, just the action of a coward. If he had let go and dropped with Bucky, he could have taken the brunt of the fall. If Bucky had survived it with an experimental serum, Steve definitely could have. He could have _saved_ him. “Just let me help. Please.” 

Tony pats his shoulder. “Alright, alright, don’t give yourself an aneurism over it. I’m sure we’ll be able to find something for you to do.” 

***

“I don’t want to do that.” 

“You _said_ you wanted to help. I assure you, I will find it immensely helpful and stimulating if I have fresh coconut water to drink. Chop chop, Steven. There are trees that need climbing.” 

It was bad enough that Steve was stuck squeezing into Tony’s clothes. This was crossing the line. “I am not going to climb a coconut tree dressed in nothing but this stupid thong you call a bathing suit to get you a coconut. You have a suit that _flies_. If you want a coconut that badly, get it yourself.” He flops down on the couch, folding his arms over his (bare) chest and holding a throw pillow in his lap. “I look like a stripper.” 

“Yeah, you do,” Tony grins. “Want me to find you a pole?” 

He flushes. Deeply. “No.” 

“Tony, leave him alone.” Natasha is curled on the other end of the couch with a laptop. It hadn’t taken her and Tony long to break through something called a ‘firewall’ and since then, she’s been going through SHIELD files in foreign languages, not trusting the AI to do it. “He’s a baby. Look at him, you’re giving him anxiety.” 

“Can you find me a _shirt_?” He’s willing to beg at this point. When he had emerged from his shower finally alien gut free, his one outfit had been gone, replaced with only this stupid Speedo. His _underwear_ covers more skin than this thing does. 

“Sorry, Cap. No can do,” Tony flicks through a bunch of holographic files. He really hadn’t been kidding when he had said this place had all the resources they needed. “Unfortunately I am attached to all of my shirts and cannot possibly spare a single one, seeing as they are much too small for you and you would stretch them. Muscles on display only I’m afraid. Consider it a public service.” 

“Sun’s out, titties out,” Natasha mutters. 

“I like your attitude, Romanoff.” 

Steve hates them, really. He’s gonna catch on fire if he blushes any harder. Damn fair Irish skin tone. Tony hadn’t shut up for thirty minutes straight when he discovered that Steve is a full body blusher. “I don’t have…titties. They are _muscle_. I am _muscular_.”

“I can’t believe I just heard Captain America say the word _titties_. This is the best day of my entire life.” 

He scowls and curls in harder on himself, like the pillow is gonna magically not be the size of a handkerchief. “I was in the army in World War Two and before that I grew up in the Brooklyn slums. You really think titties is the most lewd thing I’ve ever said?” 

“Oh my god, please tell us whatever you said that tops it.” 

“No.” 

He doesn’t particularly want to tell them about the times that they were starving and desperate, even with how hard Bucky worked, and what little work Steve could find here and there. Doesn’t want to talk about the dark nights when he would go down to the Brooklyn docks and wait until a burly sailor would come along and press five dollars into his hand in exchange for Steve leading him into a back alley and getting on his knees. Or ten dollars if he was willing to bend over something and beg. Bucky never knew. He played it off like he had come into a really good art commission or some rich old woman had offered to pay him to clean her house. He’d hated the way Bucky worked himself so tired he could barely keep his eyes open long enough to eat dinner when he came home from a shift and didn’t even get enough time to sleep to recover before he was off to work again. He’d hated that he hadn’t been able to help more. Whatever means he had to go to in order to help make ends meet as fairly as he could, he had been willing. 

And if those long dead sailors were to be believed, he had been good at it. 

Wouldn’t that just rock Tony’s whole world; if he found out that Captain America had whored himself out for money. 

“Look, I might not know how to hack into secure networks or whatever but I can read through files just as well as either of you can.” He rakes his fingers through his hair. It needs to be cut, getting long enough that without gel to hold it in place it’s starting to fall into his eyes. “Just give me a… virtual stack of them. Tell me what to look for and I’ll do it.” 

He needs something to focus on. Just sitting here, _waiting_ , letting them do all the work? It’s like thousands of tiny ants are crawling just beneath his skin and if he starts scratching at them, he won’t be able to stop. He’d always had too much nervous energy, according to Bucky. Too eager to throw himself into fights, unable to ever sit still for ten minutes unless he was too sick to move or absorbed in art. But he doesn’t draw anymore. And there’s no one to fight. 

And Bucky is out there somewhere. Alive. 

The brown notebook and open file on the coffee table are sitting there. Mocking him. 

They’d gone over them both multiple times and only found a few clues as to where to start looking. An inactive Hydra base somewhere in Siberia was their strongest lead so far but Other Steve had noted that he was probably in American hands by now and wasn’t being stored there any longer. 

It was an odd sensation, to be so royally pissed off at _himself_ but would it really have been _that_ difficult for Other Steve to ask his Bucky where they should start looking? 

He promptly feels like shit for thinking that, because maybe future Bucky doesn’t _remember_ where he was being kept. It isn’t fair of him to just assume that he would. 

Before Natasha had fallen asleep on the flight, they’d read through the Winter Soldier’s file and she’d translated all of the Russian, reading aloud even though her voice trembled through some of it. It was brutal. He’d thrown up twice. 

It was all his fault. 

He flinches out of his reverie when Tony throws a shirt and a pair of swim trunks at his head. 

“C’mon, Cap. Put those on. You and I are gonna take a little walk.” He stretches, his arms lifting above his head. “Jarvis, keep scanning those files for any mention of Barnes or the Winter Soldier, okay?” 

“I’m on it, Sir.” 

Steve yanks the clothes on- the trunks are still fucking tiny and too tight to leave anything to imagination but Tony and Natasha already saw him in the Speedo so he really has nothing to hide at this point. His hands are twitching a little and the crawling sensation hasn’t left but he follows Tony silently out of the house and down to the beach. The sun is almost set and the sky is painted in glorious oranges and pinks and purples. There’s a gazebo just far enough from the water that high tide wouldn’t touch it and Tony sits down on the sandy steps, squeezing his hands between his knees. Steve leans against the railing. “What is this about?” 

“This has been a really shitty day all around and we’re all beyond exhausted. First the helicarrier, then the aliens, then time travel and the Hydra bombshell. But in the house just now? I’m pretty sure that you were about to go into another major panic attack and that’s the second time today. It’s a lot to deal with, even more for you than for the rest of us. I just want to make sure- and I know this isn’t the right word, exactly- that you’re okay.” 

Steve scowls. Digs his fingers into his palms so hard that the skin breaks. “I’m fine.” He has to be fine. Because if he takes a single second to really and truly process any of this, he might never get back up. 

“How old are you, Steve? Biologically?” 

“Twenty six.” Whatever that has to do with anything. 

“Do you have any idea what I was doing at twenty six?” Tony winces. “It sure as hell wasn’t this. I certainly didn’t give a shit about a single person in the world except myself. I was either drunk or high twenty four seven. Natasha wasn’t joking when she said you’re a baby, and I’m not trying to insult you here, I swear. I look at you and I see someone so fucking young that you ought to be barely out of college and yet you’ve already fought and died for the entire world, you’ve lost _everything_ and somehow you’re still standing. But in here,” he taps his chest, “I think you’re _drowning_ and you know what? You’re fucking allowed to be scared and upset and not know what to do. I just want you to know that even though we may not get along that well? I’m still here for you. I know what it feels like to be alone in the world. You are not alone, I hope you know that.” 

There’s blood dripping down Steve’s palms now. It lands on the white washed wooden steps and Tony looks at it and back at him but he doesn’t reprimand him the way Bucky would have. He doesn’t mock him for it either. He sits down on the steps. “I’m going to be fine.” 

“We’re gonna get him back for you. One way or another.” 

“I know.” 

They stare at the ocean in silence for a long time.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey guys so this chapter gets kind of Heavy in a different way from previous chapters. i hinted about bucky's issues with food in his last POV chapter and i go more into depth on that in this chapter as well as introduce a new character who is struggling with an eating disorder. if that is triggering for you, PLEASE stop reading this fic right now, it's not worth a relapse I promise. it felt important to me to include these things, because this is sort of a therapy kind of process for me in writing and my family has had major dealings with eating disorders. i debated for a long time whether or not this chapter should even be published at all or if i should have deleted it and rewrote it entirely but eventually came to the conclusion that i needed to cover this topic for me. sage's character is based off a combination of my little sister and myself and i hope that she doesn't resonate in a bad way with anyone but you are more than welcome to message me on twitter (my @ is in the end notes) and raise any concerns you may have and i promise i will listen. 
> 
> on another note, i'm not even a dog person but we are zeus stans first and humans second :)

Sam’s mother greets Bucky with a hug (which he stands stiffly through. Steve is the only person who has hugged him since the 1940s. He’s not exactly sure how he feels about it.), a plate of food, and a reprimand that he should cut his hair. He sits awkwardly at the table across from Sam, his still wet hair dripping onto his shirt, poking at the food on his plate. 

Steve had liked his long hair. 

Maybe she was right. 

Zeus pads up to him, laying his head in Bucky’s lap. He breathes out, long and slow, and takes a bite of mashed potatoes. They’re full of cheese and butter and way, way too rich and he’ll definitely end up throwing the meal up at some point in the middle of the night when his digestive system decides to say _fuck you, Bucky Barnes_ because he isn’t allowed to enjoy anything anymore, not even basic human necessities. He kind of really hates eating sometimes. Even the serum isn’t saving him from this. 

Sam must have told his mother _something_ because she doesn’t ask any personal questions, just thanks him for watching her son’s back in battle and tells him to call her Ma Wilson. He’s drained and doesn’t really participate in the conversation but he volunteers to do the dishes after they’ve finished eating and she doesn’t exactly give in, but she lets him dry and tells him about Sam as a child. 

“He broke his arms at least five times jumping off fire escapes and out of trees. Convinced from the day he could walk that he could fly.” 

“Was I wrong?” Sam rolls his eyes, leaning against the counter, a cookie in his hand. Zeus is literally sitting on top of his feet, gazing at the food in his hand with pleading eyes. Sam ignores him. “That mindset really worked out for me in the long run. It’s worth the click in my left wrist when I move it, because hey. I’m Captain fucking America now, only cooler because I also _fly_.” He winces as soon as the words are out of his mouth, guilt all over his face when he meets Bucky’s eyes. 

“I don’t know a better man for the job, Sam.” He pats the other man’s shoulder and dries the last dish. Sure, there’s a bitter part of him that’s just a little jealous. Not that he really wanted the shield or the responsibility that goes along with that mantle. Just a little upset that Steve never even considered offering it to him. He’d told him once _I don’t know if I’m worth all this_.

Turns out he really wasn’t. 

“I’m gonna go to bed,” his voice is faint. “It’s been a long day.” 

“If you need anything, just let me or Sammy know,” Ma Wilson tries hard to hide it, but there’s pity on her face and her hands flutter at her sides just a little, like she’s holding herself back from hugging him again. 

Zeus follows him up the stairs and into the spare bedroom. 

He sits on the edge of the mattress, running his hand over the dog’s furred head repetitively. The room is painted pink and there are faded spots on the walls where it looks like posters had been hung. There’s a charred mark on the floor under a fluffy white rug- he’d found it when he had swept the room out of habit when Sam first showed him to it. The closet was full of taped up boxes. It had belonged to someone. Someone who apparently wasn’t around anymore if it had been relegated to the guest room. He doesn’t realize he’s rocking back and forth, breathing raggedly until Zeus jumps onto the bed and nudges him until he lies back against the pillows. A tear streaks down his cheek and into his ear when Zeus rests his front paws and head on his chest, warm breath huffing against the hollow of his throat. “Man, Sam really wasn’t kidding about you being an emotional support dog, huh, Buddy?” 

Bucky has been shot hundreds of times, tortured, had his damn arm cut off while he was still awake to see and feel it and all of that was horrible and he would rather die (again) than have to repeat any of it. But he’s staring up at the ceiling and even in the dark he can see every crack in the plaster. He and Steve had passed many bored hours pointing out shapes in the ceiling like one would with clouds. And he’s never going to have that back again. It’s like a cold chasm is opening in his chest and it’s so deep and so wide and he’s falling, falling, falling into it. 

He clutches Zeus to him and cries himself to sleep. 

***

The blinking red numbers on the bedside clock read 2:43 AM when he lurches awake, his stomach cramping like it’s filled with dozens of red hot knives. It hurts like a _bitch_ to move but he’s going to be sick. He stumbles down the hallway and into the bathroom, not even bothering to turn on the light before he collapses to his knees in front of the toilet and promptly empties his stomach into it. He’s _freezing_ but sweat rolls down his temples and he curls into a ball on the floor and shakes and shakes and it hurts. There’s not a single position that makes it better and he might be sick again or pass out if it doesn’t stop. 

Seventy years of brainwashing and torture couldn’t take him down but this? This just might. 

He hates the Winter Soldier and everything that his former identity represents but sometimes he really just fucking hates being a person again. It would be so nice not to feel. 

“Bucky?” The light doesn’t turn on but he vaguely registers Sam squatting next to him, warm hand tentatively touching his shoulder. A warm, furry weight settles across his lower legs. “Zeus woke me up. Are you okay?” 

“Digestive system failure,” he manages to gasp out before sitting up to dry heave into the toilet again. Sam scrapes his hair back, away from his face and holds it there but nothing comes out and Bucky slumps forward, his forehead resting against the side of the cold bowl. All in all, he’s been worse places. “As the Soldier, I never ate anything. Just water. They pumped me full of shit through an IV, I don’t know. You probably know better than me if you read the files. I couldn’t eat anything at first, when I broke free. Eventually I figured out that my system could handle fruits and weak broths. I was working my way up to some vegetable soups in Wakanda when…everything went to shit.” 

“Shit, Bucky, you could have said.” Sam sits next to him, still carding his hair back, away from his face. “I know my mother cooks with enough butter to make a saint cry, fuck, I’m so sorry. I should have realized.” 

“Not your fault. I’m the one who chose to eat it.” Granted, he’s in so much pain right now he may never eat again. Nutrient tubes weren’t _that_ bad all things considered. “I didn’t want to seem wasteful or hurt your ma’s feelings.” 

“You wouldn’t have.” He opens the cabinet beneath the sink and grabs an elastic band from a basket, gently securing Bucky’s tangled hair in a bun. “I didn’t tell her much, but she knows enough that she’ll understand. And you wouldn’t be the first person with… disordered eating that she’s been around.” 

His stomach cramps hard again and he grits his teeth, lying back down on the floor. Zeus whines softly, wedging his nose under Bucky’s neck until he lifts up just enough for Zeus to curl up in the perfect position to be used as a pillow. “I’m stealing your dog when I leave,” he mutters, voice hoarse. His throat is still burning from throwing up and he’s starting to shiver again. 

“He’s my mom’s dog.” Sam reaches up and grabs the sink, hauling himself to his feet. He flushes the toilet before filling a glass half full of water from the sink tap and handing it to Bucky, waiting for him to drink it before crossing the room to rummage in the linen closet. He returns with a pillow and a couple of thick winter blankets. He spreads one of the blankets over Bucky and lays on the floor next to him, the pillow under his head, wrapped in the other blanket like a burrito. “How long does it usually take for you to recover when you have an episode like this?” 

Bucky stares at him, bewildered. There’s little glow in the dark stars on the ceiling that someone had put a lot of work into arranging into constellations and the dim green light glints off Sam’s skin in the dark. “You don’t have to stay here with me.” 

“I know,” Sam sighs. “But I’d feel like a shit friend if I didn’t. No one should have to suffer alone. So how long?” 

“Hours… I don’t know. I lose time.” It’s such a sharp contrast from the snarky back and forth they had developed when they were around Steve. Maybe he’s finally starting to see the Sam that Steve had made friends with rather than just someone he was losing his only friend in the world to. They’ve both lost him and there’s no reason to clash and compete with each other anymore. It’s weird. “Do you think I should cut my hair?” 

“Only if you really want to _for yourself_. But not for a single other damn person in the world. Do you want to cut it?” 

“No,” Bucky bites his lip, shaking his head, rubbing his cheek against Zeus’s side. “I wore it longer in Brooklyn, even though it drove my mom batty. I only cut it short when I got drafted.” He doesn’t mention that he kept it long because Steve found it calming to put his hands in it when he got overwhelmed and had what Bucky now recognizes in retrospect as anxiety attacks. He’d thought it was an asthma thing back then. 

Had Peggy let Steve play with her hair throughout their years of marriage? 

He grimaces and shuts off that line of thought real quick. 

“I think you should keep it long, then. Man buns are in right now anyway,” Sam pauses, frowning. “Or at least they were… before. We’ve missed a _lot_ , haven’t we?” 

Out of everything he’s been trying to keep going through, he hadn’t even given their five year absence a second thought. He’s no stranger to gaps in time. Maybe it’s fucked up but it makes him laugh. “I’m an old hand at researching things I’ve missed out on at this point; I can help you with this one.” 

Sam starts laughing too. “I guess you are. Alright, sure, why not? Be my ‘oh shit, I accidentally missed half a decade’ guide?” 

“I _just_ said I would be.” Bucky pats Sam’s shoulder, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath. His stomach still feels like he drank a gallon of hot lava but maybe Sam had been right. 

Living was easier when you didn’t have to suffer alone. 

***

Bucky is rudely awakened when his head hits the bathroom floor with a sharp _thud_ and Zeus steps on his chest and bladder in his eager attempt to get to the doorway and the tiny, unimpressed teenage girl standing in it. Sam sleeps through the entire thing, face down in his pillow. “Uh…hi?” His mouth tastes like something crawled down his throat and _died_ at some point during the night. He’d thrown up twice more before finally falling asleep. 

“Hey there, Hottie Passed Out On The Bathroom Floor With Sam.” She says the entire thing like a name. “I’m Sage.” Despite it being somewhat early in the morning best he can tell from the lighting in the hallway, she’s wearing a full face of makeup, sharp points of black elongating the outer corners of each eye. She has long, almost fluorescent pink hair, pulled up into a high ponytail. A smirk curls her glossy lips. “Bad hangover?” 

“Ugh,” Sam groans into his pillow. “Go away, Barbie. It’s too early.” He pushes himself into a sitting position, rubbing his hands over his eyes. 

“Barbie is blonde, douchebag.” She kicks Sam’s ankle, none too gently. Her sneakers are shiny and change colors when she moves and chunky enough that they probably add at least three inches to her height. “Ma told me to wake you up and make you go help her with breakfast.” 

Sam meets Bucky’s gaze at that, wincing. He reaches over and squeezes Bucky’s shoulder before getting to his feet with a groan, his joints popping as he stands. “Yeah, okay. Still no luck with your folks?” 

“Nah,” Sage shrugs and squats to ruffle Zeus’s ears. “I’m not sure they’ll ever come around but hey. I’ve been without them for five years now. The worst of that grief is over. And besides, I have Ma.” Her smile doesn’t reach her eyes. “Who’s your friend?” 

“I’m Bucky,” he grunts as he stands, bracing his hands on the sink. He _really_ needs to brush his teeth. His toothbrush and toothpaste are still sitting on the counter where he had left them last night when he had dumped his toiletries in the bathroom before showering. He reaches for them, turning on the tap. 

“Coolio,” Sage turns to head back toward the stairs, her hand curled around Zeus’s collar. “Well. I’m gonna take this one on a walk real quick. See you at breakfast, I guess.” 

Zeus whines at the word _walk_ but follows the girl obediently. 

As he brushes the filthy taste out of his mouth, it occurs to him that the recently abandoned ‘spare room’ had probably been hers. _I’ve been without them for five years_ , she’d said about her parents, _and besides, I have Ma_. It’s not his place to ask, so he won’t, but there’s clearly something going on there. It really puts it into perspective that he isn’t the only one going through absolute _shit_ as a result of that goddamned snap. 

He washes his face and yanks a comb through his tangled hair, using the same elastic Sam had tied it back with the night before to pull half of it back into a loop like he’d taken to wearing in Wakanda. He only has three outfits total but when he gets back to the room he was sleeping in, he finds a pair of sweatpants and a grey t-shirt lain out on the bed. Sam’s mother must have left them for him. They smell like laundry soap, the modern stuff- Tide or whatever they called it and they’re softer than anything he owns so he pulls them on over a fresh pair of underwear. 

His stomach clenches a little in trepidation as he descends the stairs at the thought of eating again and the scent of bacon is heavy in the air, but when he gets to the kitchen, Sam hands him a slushy purple drink and a bowl of oatmeal with blueberries and strawberries on top. 

“The oatmeal is plain and it should be easy on your stomach and the smoothie is just coconut milk, bananas, and berries.” Sam has his own smoothie in hand and there are more ingredients on the counter next to the blender, prepped and ready to go. “Sage likes to make her own so she can see what goes into it. If you want to do the same, that’s fine, I’ll drink the one I gave you.” 

“No, it’s fine. I trust you.” Bucky sits at the table, awash in the golden early morning sun. Ma Wilson turns away from the stove, her hands on her hips and a stern expression. He gulps. 

“You should have said you have food allergies,” she scolds. “It wouldn’t have been any trouble to fix something else, you poor thing.” 

Bucky raises his eyebrows at Sam. _Food allergies_.

“ _What did you want me to tell her_?” Sam mouths. 

That was a good point. He’d rather not have the gruesome details of his life told to any more people than necessary. He wasn’t even certain if he was still a fugitive from the American government or not. “I didn’t wanna seem rude, ma’am. I was raised to eat what’s on my plate, no matter what’s put in front of me.” 

“Well, that’s not what happens in this house. I’d much rather make something you can eat _healthily_ than have you throwing up all night again.” She ruffles his hair as if he were a ten year old boy with scraped knees rather than the world’s most notorious assassin. “Sage is vegan and I’ve been accommodating that diet for years. Pretty much whatever I make for her you can eat too, so I can just make extra.” 

“Thank you, ma’am.” He takes a sip of the smoothie and it’s surprisingly good. He’d heard of them but never actually had one before. Maybe this can be his favorite food. He eats slowly, his stomach recovered from last night thanks to the serum, but he doesn’t want to push his luck. 

Sage bounds into the kitchen with Zeus about fifteen minutes later, her eyes bright. “So you guys will never guess what happened on our walk.” She stops at the sink to wash her hands, not waiting for anyone to respond. “Zeus and I met Spiderman. That’s what y’all miss out on by laying around in the mornings instead of heading out and getting fresh air.” 

Sam stands up straighter, his gaze flicking to Bucky’s before he focuses on Sage. “Spiderman, huh? What was he like?” 

“Dude, don’t pull that shit with me,” Sage laughs as she moves over to the blender, tossing the laid out ingredients into the pitcher. “I know who you two are and I know you’ve met him. I think the question you’re looking for is _how_ is he? And the answer to that is fucking depressed as shit. He was wearing the mask so I couldn’t be sure but I think he was crying. Zeus did his whole ‘I must aggressively comfort this person to death’ routine, so it’s a safe assumption. I got his number though!” 

Sam silently takes the plate of food his mother hands him, looking deep in thought as the blender runs. He sits across from Bucky, poking at his scrambled eggs. “Poor kid, Parker,” he mutters under his breath. “I’ve only known Sage a couple of days but maybe she’ll be a good friend for him.” 

Bucky had only known Sage a few _minutes_ but he kind of thought she was too much for Peter to handle. Time would tell. 

Sage pours her smoothie and moves over to the table, flipping a chair around to straddle it backwards. Up close, Bucky can see how fine boned her hands are, the way her eyes seem too big for her face and too sunk in, how the whites of her eyes are yellow tinted and suddenly Sam’s comment about disordered eating from last night makes a lot more sense. It hadn’t occurred to him when he had first seen her in the bathroom doorway just how _thin_ she is, because everyone had looked like that back when he was growing up- not enough food for anyone and most people too poor to afford what little was available. He and Steve had both sported the same gaunt, starved look that Sage had. 

He has to refrain from pushing his bowl of oatmeal in front of her. 

This isn’t the old days and she isn’t Steve and even if he gives in to his stupid nurturing streak and _tried_ to offer her food, all he’s likely to do it alienate her. If Sam the Therapist isn’t trying to tell her to eat anything more than a smoothie, then it sure as hell isn’t Bucky’s place to do it. Depending on how long he sticks around while he figures out what he’s supposed to do with his life now, he might get to know her well enough to broach the subject. 

But for now… he smiles at her when she steals a piece of bacon off of Sam’s plate to feed it to Zeus under the table and asks about how she came to meet Spiderman.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as you read this chapter please bear in mind that while i am technically russian, it's on my biological father's side and i have only the barest minimum understanding of russian culture and name diminutives so if you are more russian than i am and see inaccuracies, PLEASE message me on twitter and correct me so i can update it to a more accurate telling. 
> 
> i b like [devouring your comments for fuel noises]

They find their first solid lead the next morning, while they’re all still somewhat dead to the world, slumped over mugs of black coffee in the ridiculously luxurious kitchen. Jarvis announces that he has located a deeply hidden but active file on the Winter Soldier and that he has sent the decrypted version to the laptop that is sitting on the bar. Steve is the first one to it, his breath going shallow as he opens the file (Natasha had taken pity on him last night, teaching him how to use the programs so he could go through the files in French and German while she slept). The other two are peering over his shoulder, reading along with him. 

It’s dated 1993 and labeled Asset United States Containment Program. Steve might be sick. There are random blanks in the paragraphs upon paragraphs detailing the cryogenic chambers and electroshock chairs that had been installed in multiple secure bunkers nationwide. One in DC, one outside Portland, one in Dallas, one in New Jersey. At Camp Lehigh. The details on that one are heavily redacted, blank space upon blank space. 

“I think we know where to start,” Natasha murmurs, tapping one finger against the screen. “Odd that they would choose an abandoned army training camp, but judging by the blanks, I think we might have a solid hit here, Steve.” 

“I was trained there,” Steve’s voice is faint, even to his own ears. Not a single part of his past can remain untouched by Hydra apparently. They just _had_ to put a dark cloud over everything he’s ever had. “When can we go?” 

“We’ll have to stop by the tower first,” Tony hums into his coffee mug. “There’s no tac gear here, and you’ll need to get your shield. We should probably wait until we’ve finished scanning all of these files first, mine them for whatever info we can. Jarvis, add a flag to the specified locations in this report and look for them in any other files. Cap might be an old hand with these Hydra bastards, but I’d kind of like to know what I’m walking into first.” 

“Certainly, Sir. I estimate it will take about sixteen hours to finish scanning through the data. Perhaps a few longer if Agent Romanoff and Captain Rogers still wish to read through foreign language files themselves.” 

Steve had exhausted all of the French and German ones the night before and while he was far from useless with languages, he didn’t necessarily trust his grasp on any other ones to translate them himself. And he wouldn’t be any good at any of them without Bucky, because, well, Bucky had always been the one who excelled at everything he tried. Long before the war, when they had just been two dumb kids running barefoot around the Brooklyn streets, Bucky had already spoken five languages. English was his third language, Brooklyn drawl warring with the rolled R’s his tongue had wanted to spit out, courtesy of his Romanian father and Russian mother who immigrated to New York before any of their children had been born but they had spoken both languages in their home. Hebrew, learned in synagogue, and Italian because what kid in Brooklyn didn’t know at least a little Italian? Bucky just had to go above and beyond and be fluent in it. So Steve has a basic grasp on speaking all of those and of course French and German were fluent, picked up in the war due to sheer necessity, but he was nowhere near Natasha’s caliber and he never did learn to read Cyrillic very well. “I’ve finished what I can on those, Jarvis,” he glances at the redhead, waiting for her response. 

“Just let me know if you flag anything on the Winter Soldier in the Russian files and I’ll look it over if we get to that bridge.” She brushes her hair away from her face with a sigh. It had long since escaped from the braids he had put it in, curling wildly. Her gaze darts over to where the hammer sits on the counter, where Steve had left it some point during the night around his sixth cup of coffee. He doesn’t even know why he drinks so much of the stuff, caffeine certainly doesn’t do anything for him and the serum lets him stay awake for days on end. It tastes better now than it had during the Depression and the war, but it’s still bitter and hot and reminds him a little bit of home. “Maybe you wanna take that outside and figure out how to fight with it if you’re planning on keeping it,” she smirks at him. “Too bad we don’t have Thor here with us to train you. _That_ would be a sight to see.” 

“I don’t know,” Tony laughs, pulling a box of Pop Tarts from a cabinet. Steve still isn’t exactly sure how this place is stocked with fairly fresh groceries if there’s only five people in the world who supposedly know about it. “Have I mentioned that he’s a bit attached to his hammer? He might get jealous and steal it from Steve even though he already has one of his own and this one is just like… a clone. From the future.” He huffs through his nose. “Time travel. Gotta admit I’m pretty intrigued to figure out how that works. Sure we can’t just go ahead and open that other letter, Steve?” 

“He said not to unless everything goes horribly wrong. I’m not entirely sure how much I trust his intentions….” He glances at the hammer. The way Other Steve had suddenly not been able to lift it _really_ isn’t sitting well with him. “But I trust that he had his reasons and he sounded serious about that. So I’m not opening it.” 

Not that he hadn’t sat and stared at it on the jet, so so tempted to see just exactly what the worst case scenario protocol was going to be. 

He pushes to his feet with a sigh, ignoring Tony’s disappointed prattling and dumps the rest of his coffee down the sink, rinsing out the mug and putting it in the drainer. The hammer flies into his hand when he flexes his fingers and silently beckons it. He’s starting to get used to the live wire shock of holding it, learning that if he doesn’t fight it, doesn’t think of it as this Other thing, but rather as an extension of himself then the power doesn’t feel like it’s digging into him like tiny fish hooks embedded into his very being, pulling out electricity that shouldn’t have been there in the first place. Instead it feels a little like it was a part of him all along, that _he’s_ the source of the current and not the unwilling conductor. 

He still doesn’t have a damn clue how to make it fly. 

“I’m gonna take this down to the shore and train,” he rolls his shoulders. “What are you guys gonna do?” 

“Sleep,” Tony answers immediately. “I have a feeling we’re not gonna get a lot of that in the next few weeks. Seriously, when all this blows over I am going on the vacation of a century.” 

“I may not be able to help with the hammer aspect,” Natasha stands, “But I definitely noticed during the New York battle places where your fighting could be improved so I’m gonna watch and give you pointers.” 

He’s not entirely sure if he should be insulted or not. He’s _Captain America_ , he’s one of the greatest fighters of all time. But Natasha had kept up with him against aliens with no enhancements, just her training. So maybe he should listen to her. Anyway, he’s kind of terrified to tell her no. 

They traipse down to the shore, past the gazebo. The sun is shining but it’s early enough that the air hasn’t heated up yet and the breeze coming off the ocean is incredible. Maybe once they get Bucky out, they can come back here while he recovers. They’re certainly going to need to be in a safe house for as long as Hydra exists, looking for him. And Steve isn’t doing so hot either with the shiny new future. Nothing in New York is the same. It would be nice to have this secluded paradise to learn and adjust and heal. 

“Um,” he eyes the hammer, “What should I try first do you think?” 

Natasha shades her eyes, looking at him contemplatively. “Well, you seemed pretty competent with the whole lightning thing yesterday in Stark’s lab. Why don’t you try summoning a bolt or two? Let it strike the water though, I’m not trying to get electrocuted to death today, Styopa.” 

The nickname slides like ice water down his spine, his throat tightening up so much it’s hard to get the words out when he speaks, “Why did you call me that?” 

She tilts her head to the side, “It’s just a Russian diminutive for Stepan. Steven.” 

“I _know_.” It’s just that he hasn’t heard it since Bucky’s mother had hugged him tight at the train station before he shipped off to basic, hugged him like she was losing another son to the war, and told him to be careful but to go find Bucky and stay with him. To keep each other safe. He’d failed her. 

“I’m surprised you’re so versed on Russian culture,” Natasha’s voice is mild. “Should I be worried you’re going to start raiding the vodka?” 

“I ought to be, I practically grew up in a Russian household.” Steve tightens his grip on the hammer, letting the surge of energy flow through him, down his arm and into his fingertips. Clouds start to gather on the horizon even though moments before the sky had been entirely clear. “Please don’t call me Styopa again.” It’s a sacred thing, something that belongs with the family he’s lost and no one else. He swings his arm up, his muscles clenching as the lightning arcs down from the cloud to the hammer in his hand and he brings it crashing down into the water near the horizon. 

“Not bad, Steve. Not bad at all,” Natasha smiles at him, really smiles. “Now do it again.” 

***

They practice until his body is twitching from electrical stimulation and he can control multiple bolts of lightning at once, aiming at different points. Until he can throw the hammer hard enough to bust a boulder apart and have it back in his hand before the broken pieces have finished hitting the ground. Then she makes him spar with her on the hot sand for _hours_ , correcting his stance and the way he uses his weight. Natasha would make a hell of a drill sergeant, the likes of which that would put Colonel Philips himself to shame, but she’s good at teaching. He’s always been a quick learner even before the serum enhanced his reflexes and skills, so by the time they’re starving enough to go back to the house to grab lunch, he’s fighting back with the same acrobatics that she uses, if not the same grace. He’s learned how to flip his way through a fight, moving with his opponent and using the objects around him to project his weight off of instead of trying to punch through everything like a brick wall. 

He still hasn’t tried flying yet. 

Jarvis informs them Tony is still asleep so they make a stack of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, something that Steve had first tried during the war and immediately loved, which was good because it had been one of their staple foods. Natasha cuts the crusts off hers and Steve pretends like it doesn’t bother him to waste them. That’s what the 21st century is all about, after all. There’s little foil juice pouches called CapriSun that Natasha grabs an entire box of and they head back out to the gazebo to eat. 

“Tell me about Bucky,” Natasha says, one bite into her first sandwich. “What was he like?” 

Steve flinches when his juice pouch spills all over his hand because he accidentally squeezed it too hard. “Bucky was- is- the most talented, strongest person I’ve ever met.” The weeks after coming out of the ice had been the hardest in his life, every time he saw something new and amazing he would think _Bucky would love this_ and turn to tell him only to remember that he was gone forever. 

Or not. 

He breathes in deeply, taking a drink of his juice. It doesn’t taste a thing like any juice he’d had in the past, and he’s pretty sure it’s not _real_ juice but it’s also kind of really good and he drinks the whole thing in one go. Probably why Natasha took the whole box. “Bucky excelled in school, he spoke five languages by the time he was seven, he graduated years before I did even though he was only a year older than me because he kept skipping grades. He could have made so much of his life, could have gone to college and become an engineer- he got so excited for the Stark Expo, like a kid on Christmas morning. He gave all of that up to work shitty jobs that took all of his energy because he wasn’t willing to leave me behind to go live his life. He could have had the _world_ but instead he chose to settle for me and a one bedroom tenement in the worst part of Brooklyn. He was always too good for me, but he never seemed to see that. He saved my life so many times over and I failed him when I didn’t catch him on the train. I won’t fail him again.” He swallows hard, like there’s a lump of peanut butter and bread stuck in the back of his throat even though he hasn’t even taken a bite of a sandwich yet. 

“Sounds like he loved you a lot,” She nudges him with her elbow, gently. “Sounds like he loved you enough that he would tell you to stop blaming yourself. It _wasn’t_ your fault.” She doesn’t give him a chance to retort, to assure her that it _was_. “So I know you’re Irish, so is it safe to assume that Bucky’s is the Russian household that you grew up in?” 

He takes one of the sandwiches with the crusts still on, shrugging as he bites into it. “Yeah, his Ma was Russian. Dad was Romanian. They wanted their children to have every American advantage they could so they gave them westernized names, but at home James Barnes became Yasha Barinov and I was Styopa. At least to his parents. To each other we were always Bucky and Stevie. A couple of Brooklyn born idiots.” 

Bitter irony that he ended up in the hands of the USSR. Steve can picture it, Bucky cold and alone in some cell in the alps somewhere, hearing Russian being spoken and immediately having hope because it would have reminded him of _home_ , of his family. Only to have that comfort taken from him when they tortured him and took away his memories. He wonders if Other Steve’s Bucky can speak or hear it now without being upset. Steve’s not sure he could. 

He swallows hard and bites into his sandwich so he doesn’t have to talk anymore. Natasha seems to get it, poking one of the flimsy plastic straws into another CapriSun and handing it to him with a sad smile. She chatters about how she came to work for SHIELD while they finish eating, light conversation that he doesn’t have to do more than hum in response to every now and again. When they’ve demolished the stack of sandwiches and drank most of the juice, she smirks at him. 

“Ready to try flying?” 

“Yeah… yeah, okay.” He flips the hammer idly as they head back down to the water front. “I have no clue how this works.” 

“Well, think about how you’ve seen Thor when he flies. He spins the hammer really fast and lets go with the strap still around his wrist and just… flies. I think maybe it’s a momentum thing but then again it could be a magic thing. Trial and error, Rogers.” 

Well, he always had thrown himself into things headfirst without really thinking it through. He loops the strap around his wrist and takes a deep breath before starting to swing the hammer in circles, building speed. His heart is thundering, blood rushing in his ears. He’s gonna _fly_. When it’s spinning fast enough that it’s coming close to dislocating his shoulder, he lets go and flings himself into the air with the hammer. 

It definitely dislocates his elbow and his shoulder, a startled gasp falling from his lips as he soars through the air fast enough that his eyes water and his stomach drops. He slams into the ocean with enough force that it would break the bones of a normal man and shit, _shit_ there’s cold water closing over his head. He’s drowning again, it’s in his eyes and nose and mouth and it’s salty and it shouldn’t be this cold but it _is_ and the hammer is dragging him down, down, down. He’s going to die. His arms and legs are locked up, won’t move to push him to the surface. He’s _choking_ on the salt water. It’s pouring into his lungs and he’s going to _die_. There’s electricity crackling in the water around him as if he were surrounded by electric eels but he’s not. It’s the goddamn hammer. The hammer that is going to kill him because he couldn’t fly. _Why_ couldn’t he fly? 

_All you had to do was ask_.

The words echo through him like the hammer heard him, like it’s speaking back. And suddenly he’s moving, his body shooting up and out of the water, the electric fishhooks under his skin keeping his hand wrapped tight around the handle but it’s not forceful like when he tried, doesn’t feel like his arm is about to be yanked off. In fact, a current zings through him and his joints are back in place and the water choking his lungs is gone. And this, _this_ is flying. He knows he’s moving fast but it feels like he’s floating through the air effortlessly, like an invisible hand is holding him up so he doesn’t have to even keep his body stiff. 

He lands softly on the sand next to Natasha. Her face is a little pale; the only tell that she was shaken by what happened. 

His vision is blackening around the edges and he’s shaking but he manages to grin at her and gasp, “So. That’s flying!” before his knees give out and he drops to the sand, the horror of being under the water closing in on him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i know barinov is a russian surname and i made bucky's father romanian because im stupidly attached to romanian sebastian but pls just smile and ignore it bc yasha barinov is very important to me okay thank u love u pls comment and share if u want xoxo anastasia


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey guys sorry for the delay in updates. unfortunately they're gonna continue to be erratic for the foreseeable future because i have family visiting from out of state, i'm about to go on vacation, and then after that my new baby sibling is being born so my life is kinda chaotic at the moment and i don't have as much time to write. pls bear with me though i promise this isn't being abandoned!!!
> 
> also sorry this chapter is kind of shitty??? bucky's pov chapters right now are more focused on character development then plot driving, whereas steve's are pushing the plot forward from his end bc that's where the action is. expect the next chapter to be a LOT longer and a lot more intense :)

“Ever hear of dry shampoo?” 

Bucky scowls at Sage, the shit eating grin on her face more teeth than smile. “I don’t know what that is.” 

She walks further into the living room, tossing her phone from one hand to the other, Zeus hot on her heels. “I’m just saying you seem to have a grease problem going on and you might find it useful. Just spray it on and immediately like magic the grease is gone and your hair isn’t limp and pathetic anymore. I left some in the bathroom cabinet when I moved out. You’re welcome to use it.” She flops onto the end of the couch, stretching her legs across the cushions and nudging his thigh with her toes. 

He grabs her foot with his left hand and holds firm, not enough to hurt, but tighter than is comfortable. “I’m the most notorious assassin in history, don’t push your luck.” He releases her, expecting her to draw her legs back to her end of the couch but she just smirks and nudges him again. 

“I’m not scared of you.” 

“You should be.” 

“Nah, I know a depressed bitch when I see one,” She points one sparkly finger at him. “I _know_ about depression. You got it bad, buddy.” 

“Tell me about what happened to society and economy after the snap.” He ignores her jab. His emotional and mental health may be in tatters but so what else was new? He’d been fucked up long before he went to war for the first time. They hadn’t called it the Great Depression for no reason. 

She rolls her eyes and sighs, but hugs her knees to her chest and starts talking. “Five years ago, when everything went to shit, the world kind of shut down for a few months. There were riots and mass suicides and millions of orphaned children. The ones that were at home when it happened and were too young to care for themselves mostly died because the institutions that were supposed to take care of shit like that had fallen apart. The others were put in overcrowded and understaffed orphanages or they banded together and lived on the streets and in abandoned houses. A lot of them didn’t make it. We’re still finding bodies. I would have ended up like that. I was twelve when it happened. The only thing that saved me from that life is the fact that my parents had left me with Ma while they were on a business trip. They were picking me up when the dusting happened,” She points at the open doorway, “They were standing right there when they turned to ash. Ma didn’t let me leave; she took care of me through all of this.” 

“So when everyone came back…” He lets the question trail off, not pressuring her for an answer if she doesn’t want to give one. 

“Imagine my surprise when I looked up from the show I was watching to see my parents reappearing in front of me,” She smiles but there’s no joy in it, no humor. “Imagine _their_ surprise that their prep school good girl with an ivy league future turned into ‘a wannabe Bratz doll whore’ in the blink of an eye for them. I moved back to our penthouse with them and it somehow miraculously survived the past five years with no damage other than a truly alarming amount of dust, but they’re away trying to salvage their business. So I came back home.” 

Bucky doesn’t know what a Bratz doll was, but what she had said was still beyond fucked up. Of course her parents would have been shocked, but that was no excuse for them to call her that. “You’re not a whore,” he hesitates before reaching over to touch her shoulder lightly. Where is Sam the Therapist when he needs him? Not here, that’s where. He had left with his mother to go volunteer at a recovery center after breakfast. “Dramatic personality changes happen when someone goes through something traumatic. They should have tried to see things from your side.” 

“Oh, I know. I’m not that cut up over it, I wasn’t ever that close with them anyway. I was always cared for by nannies anyway. And I prefer the term slut.” She pats his hand. “But my story isn’t really what you asked about; I just have a tendency to overshare everything. It’s the trauma.” 

Bucky was intimately acquainted with trauma but he had never had the urge to overshare. But everyone had their own coping methods, he supposed. His was to internalize _everything_ and never speak of his feelings ever. It was working out well for him, all things considered. “Still.” 

“About six months after everything happened, when everyone was just starting to pick themselves up and try to move on and the government organizations had mostly rebanded, we realized we were running out of food. Turns out that it wasn’t just people that took a hit, it was all intelligent life, so all animals and insects took a hit. The bees were already dying before the dusting happened and afterwards, most of the hives that were left over died out too. The world population would have starved to death in months. Tony Stark and Bruce Banner created robotic bees and released them. It worked. That’s the only reason we’re still here. I imagine since the population suddenly doubled, we’ll go through food shortages again soon because manufacturers just aren’t putting out enough to sustain everyone.” 

“Rations are gonna come back.” Bucky leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees and running his fingers through Zeus’ fur. “It’s gonna suck.” 

“You would know, I guess.” 

“I feel like I should be insulted.” He wasn’t. She had a point. 

“I literally called you a depressed bitch but you get insulted over that? I’m telling Sam to give you an emergency therapy session the second he gets back.” She squints at him. “We should give you a makeover. There’s nothing better for a breakdown than a total appearance change. I’m thinking blue hair.” 

He definitely doesn’t yelp. That would be humiliating. “Fuck no. I am not dyeing or cutting my hair. Do not get any ideas. It’s not happening.” 

“Boring. How about a wardrobe update? I saw on the news that they’ve opened up centers for people who lost their houses and belongings to get clothes and stuff. There’s one a few blocks away, we could go see what they have.” 

Deep inside Bucky, under the cynical Winter Soldier, there’s a Brooklyn boy who followed clothing trends religiously and refused to leave the house if his hair wasn’t just so. And maybe that boy is fighting hard to emerge from the cage he’s been locked in for about eighty years. And _maybe_ he hates that he’s been wearing Steve’s clothes since the battle- too tight tshirts and track pants because he refused to touch the khakis and button downs. “I guess we could take a look.” 

She grins and hops to her feet. “Seriously though, come with me and let me get you some dry shampoo because I am not leaving this house with you looking like that.” 

***

“What the fuck is this?” Bucky stares at Sage, unimpressed as she dangles a pair of chunky lace up boots in front of him. They’re black with red roses embroidered on the sides, a mockery of actual combat boots. Some volunteer had brought a cart of men’s shoes out to place on the card tables of the clothing drive center and Sage had practically flung herself across the room to grab this pair before someone else did. 

“They’re Doc fucking Martens and they’re your size! Do you know what an absolute gold mine we’ve hit here?” She wiggles the shoes. “You’re getting them. Period. End of discussion.” 

Somehow this excursion had gone from him picking up a few outfits for all around wear to Sage using him as her own personal dress up doll. He hadn’t had the heart to say no while she ran around the place and piled leather jackets and ripped jeans and nearly transparent tshirts into the paper bags they had been given to fill up. He had taken out the fishnet tights while she wasn’t looking. There were some things he just wasn’t even willing to consider wearing. “These won’t hold up in a battle, Strawberry Shortcake.” 

“Neither will any of those tight ass jeans I handed you but you kept those.” She dumps the boots into the paper bag. “How do you feel about piercing your ears? I have a pair of dangly dagger earrings, I think they’ll really work with your murder-y vibe.” 

He really does like knives. “Maybe.” Chances are likely his body will heal any piercings before they can take but it’s an intriguing thought. 

“We should paint your nails too.” 

“I literally have a metal hand.” He wiggles the vibranium fingers at her, rolling his eyes. 

“That ain’t no problem. I have black and gold nail polish, we’ll just do alternating nails on your right hand and it’ll match. My philosophy is that we may be depressed but at least we can look good while we’re doing it.” She turns away from him, sorting through the stacks of folded shirts and jackets on the nearest card table. “Shame you won’t let me do anything with your hair but I guess I can make do with eyeliner and lip gloss. All the ladies will be falling all over themselves for you, you’ll have your pick if you’re in the market for a girlfriend.” 

“I’m not wearing lip gloss.” He tosses a package of black boxer briefs in the bag. The eyeliner…maybe. At least he had an idea of how that looked on him although as the Soldier he had gone straight past smudged rock star and straight into goth raccoon. “And I’m gay.” 

It’s the first time he’s actually said it aloud to anyone. And despite the fact that he knows it’s fine now and no one cares who anyone is fucking, it still makes his breath catch in his chest, his heart thump hard against his ribs. He lets his hair fall forward to hide his face, glancing at the teenager from the corner of his eye. 

She doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t have to try to school disgust off her expression, just turns to face him and tug his hair up into a bun with a smile. “Stop hiding. It’s nothing to be ashamed of. And besides,” she leans in to whisper, “I purposely left out the fact that all the boys will be falling all over you too. I wasn’t sure how you felt about homosexuality, considering when you grew up. We can get you a boyfriend, no problem.” 

“Not looking for one, but thanks.” He had been so gone on Steve for his entire life; it wasn’t even something he was willing to consider. He’d never love again. One and done. That’s all there was to it really. He clenches his jaw and grabs the full paper bag, cradling it in the crook of his arm. “C’mon, let’s get out of here, we have more than enough.” 

“Bad breakup? Wanna talk about it?” She trails after him, to the booth set up near the door where he signs his name as Yasha Barinov even though it makes bitterness curl through his chest, for everything he could have had. For everything he’s lost. The irony isn’t lost on him that he’s here in the future; the world he was so excited to see and experience and he can’t even enjoy it. That idealized reality never actually existed, because all the world has done is take and take and take from him until there isn’t anything left for it to have. And it still hasn’t stopped taking. 

He holds the door open for Sage even though she looks at him out of the corner of her eyes like he insulted her. “Again, thanks for the offer. But it’s nothing that needs to be said. I’ve been alive a long time and one lesson hard learned is that some things are better off forgotten altogether.” 

“That’s fucked up.” 

“Yeah, well…” he sighs and looks at her over his shoulder. The sun is setting and the golden light sets her hair ablaze, a pink halo. He wishes for a moment that Steve were here to see it, that he’d let out that little gasp he did when he saw something his fingers itched to draw, his ocean eyes wide with awe of the colors even though he had been cured of the colorblindness with the serum. And then he remembers and his arm whirrs quietly in commiseration when he clenches his fists tightly and looks down at the sidewalk. The streets are full of people wandering around in confusion. Those who were snapped and those who can’t get over the sudden reappearance of the population. “Can you move up here and walk in front of me? City’s not safe at night; I’d rather have you where I can keep an eye on you.” 

“I’ve been roaming these streets since I was twelve,” Sage huffs. 

“Please. For my sake of mind.” She’s absolutely nothing like Steve when he was small but it’s a weird sense of déjà vu, walking the New York City streets with someone so much smaller than him at his side again. He finds himself moving to stand at her right side, even though she’s not deaf in the left ear because she’s not Steve. Finds himself reaching out to steer her away from the rough looking types that walk past them, even though he doesn’t think he has to try and prevent her from picking a fight. 

They make it to about a block away from the brownstone when she breaks the silence. “I do appreciate what you said, earlier. About my parents calling me a whore and everything. I know I kind of brushed it off because we don’t really know each other but. I appreciate your kindness.” 

He hadn’t really considered it a ‘kindness’, necessarily. Just a fact. She was a kid and she was in pain and she was trying to cope. Everyone had to sort through their pain in their own way and if appearance was an outlet for her, then she should be supported. End of story. “My mother taught me that honesty should always be met with understanding. I’ve watched the world change over the century but I’m discovering that most of the lessons I learned from her still stand. You won’t find any judgment from me. I’m not exactly sure where the world is going to take me once I figure out how to move on from the past that’s holding me down right now. But should you need it, if you end up in trouble and need help. All you have to do is call,” he smiles wryly, looking over at her. 

“Your mother sounds like a good person.” 

“She was.” Even when they had been starving, she always managed to find enough food that there was always a place at the table for those less fortunate that found their way to her kitchen through her children. Before anything else, she had been kind and open and he missed her like a desperate gushing wound that could never be staunched. Steve had gotten to go back in time and live his happy ending and he hadn’t even thought to ask if Bucky wanted the chance to visit his mother and say goodbye. He couldn’t bring himself to ask the green professor if it was even possible. If he had the opportunity, if he went back to that time, he might end up like Steve and he might never come back. “She was the best.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the delay in posting chapters but this one is almost 6k words i hope that makes up for it!!
> 
> huge thank you to anyone who recommends this story to thestuckylibrary i love exposure!!! (to the other mods if ur reading this, im sorry im not actively helpful but life u know)

Bruce and Thor are waiting for them on the roof of the tower when the jet touches down at three am. Tony had emailed ahead to discreetly inform them that they were going to be arriving and to keep it under wraps. It’s the perfect weather for incognito flying, heavy clouds and no light from the stars or moon. They still use stealth mode but it’s a precaution rather than a necessity. Steve really isn’t sure if the cloud cover is from an actual storm coming in or if it’s coming from Thor. Or hell, he’s stressed out enough that it might even be coming from him. The hammer is practically vibrating in his hand, electricity singing through his veins. Thor gapes at him for a solid minute when he steps out of the plane with it in his hand, looking back and forth between the one he’s holding and the one Steve is holding in shock. But eventually a grin splits his face and he nods at Steve. 

“I felt a draw on the power over the past few days that wasn’t coming from me, but this explains it. Mjolnir has found you worthy and the power of thunder runs through you now as well. Welcome, my brother. We shall have revelries in Asgard in your honor.” Thor clasps his shoulder, squeezing tightly enough that it would have shattered his collarbone when he was small. Now it just feels like a firm grip. A friend. 

A brother. 

He absolutely doesn’t get choked up. The liquid that fills his eyes is merely from the high, frigid winds battering the tower and stinging his eyes. He clears his throat, nodding at the hulking blond. He likes Thor, likes how his eyes crinkle when he laughs. Likes how he manages to make Steve feel small again. He never imagined that he would be glad to have to look up to someone again after being the shortest person in a room for most of his life, but it’s nice. It feels like home in a way. 

“He almost killed himself trying to fly, so you should give him some pointers on that.” Natasha nudges him gently with her elbow as she walks past him, toward the tower door. It’s in jest and he doesn’t take offense to the gentle teasing, but he doesn’t particularly want to think about the hours he spent curled in the gazebo hammock, shaking and sick and reliving the water going over his head again and again and again, so he doesn’t respond to her comment. 

Thor pats his shoulder again and then turns, leading the way into the building. The dust in the air from the battle still hasn’t settled and there’s scaffolding and supplies littering the hallways for renovations but they’re deserted spare for the five of them. Bruce informs them that Clint had taken the initiative to cobble together tac gear for them and to retrieve Steve’s shield from where SHIELD had put it in storage when the three of them had disappeared following the battle. There’s been noise among the agents that Other Steve had named as Hydra but they haven’t threatened any of the Avengers or even asked where Steve, Natasha, and Tony had disappeared to. Maybe they were hoping that they had just fallen off the map and died and they didn’t have anything to worry about. Unlikely. 

They’re led into a conference room on one of the residential floors. The lights are dim but he can see Clint sitting cross legged in the middle of the long table. There’s a pot of coffee next to him and he’s fiddling with one of the earpieces that SHIELD had distributed to the team while they were on the helicarrier. 

“Hey, slackers,” he tosses the earpiece at Steve, who catches it right before it hits his face. “While you were all kicking back, away from the chaos, I fixed these onto a secure line. SHIELD, Hydra, they won’t be able to access any of our communications. I may not be a genius like Stark but I know enough. Are you sure you don’t want any of the rest of us on the mission?” 

Tony had said he only put the need to know information in the email; nothing about the Winter Soldier, just that they had uncovered a cell of Hydra still operating and they were going to take them out. 

Natasha jumps up to sit on the edge of the table, legs swinging back and forth. “Don’t worry about it, Clint. We’ve got this. In and out, no biggie. This one’s supposedly just an inactive base anyway.” 

“I don’t like it,” Clint mutters and takes a long swig from his coffee pot. “When are you leaving?” 

“Soon as we get changed.” Steve isn’t willing to waste another second. He’s already failed Bucky before. He has to make this right. And if Nat and Tony don’t wanna leave right now, then he’ll go by himself. “Where’s my suit?” The goddamned clown pajama suit. Completely impractical for stealth operations like this one. 

“Oh, it got lost. Someone collected it from the med bay and I couldn’t track it down before you got here,” Clint pulls a dark bundle of material from a duffle bag and tosses it at Steve. “I guessed at your measurements but it should be close enough to make do.” 

He unfurls the uniform, holds it up by the shoulders, and smiles. 

***

“Now _that_ is a _suit_.”

Steve turns away from the makeshift weapons table in the jet and rolls his eyes at Tony. The brunet is eyeing him like a piece of meat, the faceplate of the iron man suit lifted as he walks into the jet. It’s either a different one than he was wearing during the Battle, or someone had repaired it while they were on the island. 

“Stop looking at me like that,” he mutters, turning back to the selection of handguns. He has his shield and he has his Mjolnir but he wants to cover all the bases. And he’s not blind; he knows what he looks like. The suit is solid black with blood red detailing on the seams, the torso lined with Kevlar. It’s just enough on the small side that it fits but it fits like a second skin, hugging every inch of his body, not unlike Natasha’s suit. There are straps and holsters on his thighs and his chest and back and when Natasha had helped him sort out and fasten them, she’d smirked at him after cinching the ones around his thighs and announced ‘ _You could bounce a quarter off of that_ ’. He’s kind of afraid to ask what she meant. 

“Sorry, forgot you grew up in the homophobic age.” Tony claps him on the shoulder as he walks past, toward the cockpit of the jet. “No hard feelings now, we can forget everything.” 

“I’m not…homophobic.” The word is weird on his tongue, one of the new ones he had learned during his mandatory SHIELD sensitivity training. Back in the day there hadn’t been any word for prejudice against queers, it was just normal. There’s a lot he doesn’t like about the future, but this isn’t one of them. It had been a shocking thing to learn and he’d had to leave the conference room to go panic for at least twenty minutes. His life could have been so different if he had been born in this era. So much easier. They’d even told him that he could get _married_ to a man now if he wanted to. Anyone could marry whoever they liked. At least in New York. The rest of the country had yet to catch up on that but it wasn’t criminalized anymore. “I promise I’m the farthest thing from that. I’m just not interested in _you_.”

Natasha’s shoulders shake with silent laughter, her gaze resolutely on the handgun she’s loading. 

Tony gapes at him for a moment. “ _Everyone_ is interested in me.” 

“Not me.” 

“I wasn’t even hitting on you! I have a girlfriend! We are very in love.” 

Steve takes the gun from Natasha’s outstretched hand and secures it in his open thigh holster. He has six knives sheathed against the small of his back, in little pouches sewn into the Kevlar vest. Another knife against the inside of his left thigh. Handguns strapped to the outsides of both thighs. There’s space for another one between his shoulders but he had to forego that one to be able to wear the back harness for his shield. “Don’t worry about it. You’re not the first Stark man to proposition me. I told your father I wasn’t interested in him either.” 

Natasha starts laughing out loud. 

“Oh my god….” Tony looks like he might faint. It’s pretty funny. 

“Anyway.” Steve purses his lips, determined to keep a straight face. If Bucky were here, he knew the second they made eye contact he would lose it. They hadn’t stopped laughing over drunk Howard Stark’s proposition throughout the entire war. His heart has been tripping for hours; beating to a tempo of _I’m getting him back. I’m getting him back_. “I don’t like that we don’t have a layout of the base.” The information on this particular base was pretty pathetic. He had known it once, but it had no doubt changed a lot in seventy years, even if it had been abandoned at some point. And he highly doubted Hydra would have just set up camp out in the open. Their base was likely to be underground, hidden. “So we need a strategy. I think Natasha and I should go in first. I know the layout probably the best out of any of us, since I’m the only one who’s actually been there before. Natasha knows stealth and technology to get us in. At least until we sweep the place and take out any guards if there are any and then you can join us Tony. No offense, but your suit is kind of loud.” 

Tony still seems to be in shock. He doesn’t argue, just nods blindly and clunks heavily into the cockpit. Steve tenses and grabs the edge of the table as the jet shudders and takes off. He’s still uneasy with flying. Just over a month ago he was crashing the Valkyrie. No one seems to realize that and he sure as hell isn’t going to bring it up. 

“I’ve known Stark for a while now and never managed to figure out how to make him shut up.” Natasha holsters her own guns with a smile. “Gotta say, I was not expecting that one.” 

“I’m just full of surprises.” Steve nudges her with his elbow. “Tell me what you think of the plan.” If she wasn’t satisfied with it, they would rework it until she was. He trusted her now, trusted her beside him in battle. Friends. 

“It’s solid. Stark is an asset in a firefight but I’m hoping we’ll be able to get in and out without that. It should be an abandoned base based on the lack of intel we found. Probably paper records that were never transferred over to digital. If we’re _really_ lucky we’ll find your Bucky tonight.” 

He breathes in deeply. Hope is a fragile thing but he’s always been the eternal optimist. 

“But Steve,” Natasha reaches out and takes one of his hands. His palm dwarfs hers and he blinks as she gently squeezes. “Listen, I’ve met the Winter Soldier before, okay? I know what he’s like and how he fights and I think he’s an entirely different person than who you’re expecting him to be. And I know you won’t believe me when I tell you there’s a possibility he may never break out of the brainwashing and you won’t be able to see it until you’ve encountered him. Just promise me that if we run into him tonight, you won’t let him kill you. You _fight back_. Because there will be a fight. It’s not going to be pretty. Between us we can take him down and bring him in but under no circumstances do you purposely let him have you.” 

“I won’t hurt him, Nat.” He looks at their joined hands, not meeting her probing gaze. “I can’t.” And if it came down to it, he would rather give his life trying to get Bucky back from the grasp of Hydra’s Asset than to have to hurt him or kill him in self-defense. 

“Then I have to make it clear to you that if it’s you or him, I will not hesitate to put him down and save your life.” 

His gaze snaps to hers at that; her pale green eyes are steely, resolved. “Then let’s not let it get to that point.” Because he really didn’t think he would be able to come back from that. He hadn’t lasted a week the first time Bucky ‘died’. And he could be a hell of a lot more effective with his method of going this time. 

She squeezes his hand once more before releasing him and striding over to one of the computer monitors, pulling up the files on Camp Lehigh again, even though they’ve already gone over them multiple times. Steve slumps on one of the seats, pressing his hands between his knees. This is it. They aren’t going to fail because that isn’t an option. He’s going to get Bucky. They’re going to make it happen. 

The flight is only about ten minutes and he startles out of his reverie when the jet jostles with their landing. He takes a deep breath and gets to his feet. “Party time.” Mjolnir flies into his hand with the slightest flex of his fingers and a thought. 

“Facility is about half a mile northwest.” Tony appears in the doorway of the cockpit, apparently entirely recovered from the shock Steve had dealt him. “Radio lines are secure and working as they should. Let me know if you need me and I’m there.” He holds a little electronic stick towards Nat. “If there’s a dock anywhere, this will save their intel.” 

She takes it from him with a nod, dropping it in a little pouch on her belt. “Do us a favor and monitor the perimeter and the skies. I don’t want any sneaky bogies surprising us.” 

“Already on it.” 

Steve secures the shield on his back and follows Natasha out of the jet. The field they had landed in is silent spare for the rustling in the grass from rodents and the croaking of bullfrogs. It’s eerily like being back in the middle of the war, when the nights would be too quiet and the tension too high for any rest. He could be at the facility in under a minute if he was doing a flat out run but Natasha couldn’t keep up and he didn’t figure she would appreciate if he offered to carry her, so he keeps pace and even still, they make good time. 

Natasha scales the perimeter fence and manages to flip herself over the barbed wire at the top with ease, avoiding the nasty scratches it would give most people. Steve takes a running leap and clears it easily. It certainly appears to be abandoned, not even that changed from when he had trained here. A few new buildings and some of the older ones gone. Natasha is fiddling with a device. 

“I don’t have any heat signatures, no radio waves. It really might be a forgotten storage facility. We can check it out but it might be a dead end, Steve.” 

“No,” he points at one of the concrete buildings with his free hand. “That building. It’s in the wrong place. Army regulations forbid storing munitions within one hundred yards of the barracks. That’s our ringer.” He strides toward it and takes out the bolt on the door with one solid hit of the hammer. He really needs a harness or something to carry it if it’s going to become one of his regular weapons because not having both of his hands free could be a big inconvenience. 

The air inside the building is musty and full of dust. They’re leaving footprints in it because it’s layered on the floor so thickly. The hallway opens up into an office area with ancient metal desks neatly in rows. The SHIELD insignia is on the back wall. They walk down a long hallway and into a records room long emptied and abandoned. His eyes lock on the framed photographs of Howard, Peggy, and Colonel Philips. Steve’s breath shudders and he blinks hard. “This is where SHIELD started.” 

“You knew them.” 

“Yes.” He turns away from the photographs, scanning the walls. His brows furrow when his ears pick up the whistling of a draft of air. He strides over to the shelving, running his hand over the seams. They slide away when he pulls at them, revealing the secret elevator. “Natasha,” he calls. 

She brushes past him, her little device out and scanning the number keypad. She punches in the four digit code and the elevator doors creak open. They haven’t been oiled in a long, long time and the metallic screech makes the hair on the back of Steve’s neck stand on end. There’s only two floor options; up and down. He presses the down button. 

It’s a slow ride. Painfully slow. It seems like they’re descending into the pits of hell because it _just keeps going_. Steve is breathing shallowly, his foot tapping a rapid beat against the metal floor of the elevator. His hair is loose, falling in waves over his forehead and it’s a little bit irritating. He’d been distracted and hadn’t even thought about finding some pomade to slick it back. Maybe he should cut it shorter, like he’d seen men wearing it nowadays. Not the near shaved head, enough to run his fingers through, but not this long. 

The elevator shudders to a halt and the doors screech again as they open. Well, if there are any hostiles, they definitely know they have company now. He glances at Natasha and they both fall into defensive stances as they step out of the elevator. There’s a low hum of machinery and then the overhead lights start coming on. 

“Motion sensor lighting,” Natasha murmurs. 

Steve glances around the large room, his brows furrowed. He’s starting to learn about modern technology but this looks nothing like anything he’s seen. Too modern to be anything he would have known from before but it’s got none of the sleek look of anything he’s seen nowadays. He’s not totally ignorant, he’s figured out his iPhone for the most part. 

Natasha runs her pointer finger through the dust on top of the nearest machine. “This tech is ancient. It’s not a rudimentary computer server from when they were first kicking off but it’s not from the last forty years either. I’ve never seen anything like it.” She strides toward the desk with computer monitors at the center of the room and he follows her. She narrows her eyes at a glowing little box, painfully shiny and new in comparison to the rest of the setup. The little stick that Tony gave her in the jet connects perfectly. 

Steve jumps when an automated but weirdly familiar voice announces _initiate system?_ ; he can’t place it but he knows he’s heard it before. One of the screens has turned on and is displaying the same question in eerie green writing. Natasha shrugs and types _yes_.

“Shall we play a game?” She smirks over her shoulder at Steve, as if she’d expecting him to finish her sentence or even know what she’s talking about. Her expression falls a bit when he doesn’t react and she shakes her head. “It’s from a movie. We’ll watch it when we get out of here.” 

A security camera on top of the computer monitor swivels between them. Steve winces. He should have smashed that, but it’s clearly already seen them. The automated voice speaks again. 

“Romanov, Natalia Alianovna. Rogers, Steven Grant.” The screen flickers and a face appears. A face that Steve still sees in his nightmares. 

“No,” he stumbles back, electricity already zinging through his veins as his grip tightens on Mjolnir. “What the _hell_?”

“Steve?” Natasha palms one of her guns, looking back and forth between him and the monitor. 

“Arnim Zola. German scientist, he worked for the Red Skull, we captured him in ’45. He’s the reason Bucky fell. He died in the seventies.” 

“First correction, I am Swiss.” Zola still manages to look like a weasel even when he’s a face on a computer screen. “Secondly, look around you. I have never been more alive. After the war, SHIELD recruited me to serve their agenda. I also served my own. Science could not save my body, but my mind… that was worth saving. On two hundred thousand feet of databanks. You are standing in my brain.” 

“You planted Hydra in SHIELD.” Natasha’s voice is steely. 

“Correct.” 

“Tell me about the Winter Soldier.” Steve is shaking; his muscles tightly bunched in his anger. “Tell me what you did to him, you fucking Nazi.” 

“Ah! Your Sergeant Barnes!” Zola looks delighted and another computer monitor flickers on, displaying a dark, gritty image of a dirty cell. Bucky is huddled in one of the corners, entirely naked. His left arm is silver with a red star on the bicep, glinting even in the low light and terrible image quality. The skin around his shoulder is mangled, red and infected. “He was most distressed when we informed him of your unfortunate crash into the arctic. Nothing we did to him got a single tear out of him but that… we gave him a newspaper article with a report from your dear Agent Carter detailing your glorious sacrifice. He cried for three days. After that he accepted our offer to help him forget.” 

“You sick bastard,” Steve says. He presses his free hand against his stomach, looking away from the grisly image of Bucky, trapped and alone in that hell hole. 

“It was glorious science!” Zola shrills, his camera whirring. “The first of his kind! A man no more, but a weapon. Entirely loyal to Hydra’s command. Remarkably receptive to training of all kinds. He is very talented, Captain.” His voice drops, “Shall I tell you about how he screamed and begged while we removed the stump of his arm? We had to find his pain threshold, you see. He bore it beautifully and when that didn’t break him, we began to test him to see the extent of the wounds he could heal from. We shattered his spine and three days later he was walking like it had never happened at all. Nothing but a bullet to the head or the heart can bring him down.” 

Steve is going to be sick. He’d read the files but they didn’t detail…everything. He’s gonna be sick right here on this fucking desk. There’s sweat rolling down his temple. This is all his fault. 

“Where is he now?” Natasha asks, sharp. “Tell us where we can find him.” 

“Ah. But you must understand that Hydra cannot give up its most valuable asset, Miss Romanov. And after all, there isn’t anything left of Sergeant Barnes to save, he is long gone.” 

“You’re wrong.” Steve is about two seconds away from calling down lightning and frying all two hundred thousand feet of Zola’s brain databanks. But if they can get information out of him… if they can find out where Bucky is… it’s worth holding back. “I should have thrown you off a cliff in the Alps. Where the fuck is he?” 

A slow smile spreads across Zola’s face. “Would you like to meet him?” 

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” He snaps, glancing over at Natasha. But she’s gone pale, staring at a point behind his shoulder. His heart thuds hard against his ribcage. “Nat?” 

She shoves him to the side just as a bullet whizzes past him, close enough to ruffle the hairs on the side of his head. It shatters one of Zola’s monitors. Steve turns on his heel, only catching a glimpse of metal and a flash of dark hair as the Winter Soldier disappears in the maze of Zola’s databanks. Natasha is already running after him, just as silent on her feet. 

“I’m afraid that while you and your Russian friend were interrogating me, I was activating the Asset remotely from within his storage chamber, deeper within the buildings. You will not make it out of here alive tonight, Captain Rogers.” 

Steve takes out every single monitor on the desk with one sweep of the hammer and then he jumps on top of it, trying to locate Bucky from above but the overhead lights go out suddenly and the place is plunged into darkness so thick that even Steve can’t see his hand in front of his face with his enhanced vision. Okay, not good. Very not good. He’s suddenly really regretting leaving the night vision goggles Clint offered him behind. “Tony,” he presses the button on his radio, his voice low. “I think we need backup now. He’s here and he’s targeting us and we’re fighting blind in a maze.” 

“I’m on my way.” The transmission crackles in his ear. 

The entire place is silent, no footsteps, no breathing, definitely no sounds of fighting. The impact hits him from behind, arms wrapping around his waist and flinging him to the floor. He hits the ground with a gasp, rolling to the side just before an invisible metal fist puts a crater in the concrete where his head just was. He doesn’t get far; Bucky’s real hand grabbing him by the shoulder of his tac vest while the metal one reaches down and grabs the knife sheathed to his thigh, snapping the strap holding it there with ease. He swings the hammer up, letting the blade glance off the edge in a spray of sparks that illuminates Bucky’s hollow eyes. 

A bullet ricochets off of Bucky’s metal shoulder and then he’s gone into the darkness again. Natasha, no doubt. She would have tracked them by the noise they were making and fired off the shot to distract him from killing Steve. He eases to his feet and steps lightly, retracing his steps back to an alcove near the elevator. They have no strategy for this, no plan. He could brighten the place up with lightning but that would be a beacon directly to his location and while the goal was to get close enough to Bucky to subdue him if not break him out of his programming immediately, he doesn’t want to make himself a target easily taken out from a distance. He has no idea how large this place is; it could stretch on for miles. Zola mentioned that there was a storage room somewhere where Bucky had been kept and it had to be nearby because they hadn’t been talking to him that long before the Winter Soldier showed up and shot at them. 

He should stay here, wait for Tony to arrive. Tony is the best person for this because his suit will show him heat signatures and it’s bulletproof and it’s a match for the metal arm. 

But what if Tony is angry about what happened to his parents again? What if he decides that Bucky should die in revenge for Howard and Maria’s deaths? What if Natasha decides his life is in danger and she chooses to shoot Bucky if she gets the chance? He can’t take those risks. Not with this, not with something so important. 

“Your name is James Buchanan Barnes,” he calls out, as loudly as he can. The words echo through the dark space. He removes his shield from its harness and holds it in front of his vital organs. It’ll deflect any fatal bullets at least, even if his legs are still exposed. 

“Steve, what the fuck are you doing?” Natasha hisses at him through the comms. “Shut up, you’re leading him right to you again.” 

He ignores her. “You met me when I was six and you were seven, on the playground of our elementary school. Some kid was beating me up because I didn’t have any lunch for him to steal and you stepped in and stopped him. You gave me half of your pirozhki and told me that my split lip made me look tough. The next day I came home with you for the first time and I couldn’t understand a thing anyone was saying but it was warm and happy and it felt like a real home.” 

“You are a fool,” the words are soft, whispered hotly into his ear and he barely has time to register them before his shield is jerked away from him and thrown somewhere into the darkness, metal clattering loudly. He gasps as a metal hand clenches around his throat, whirring as it tightens and tightens and tightens and he can’t breathe and he won’t fight back because this is _Bucky_. He drops the hammer with a thud, both hands flying up, not to grasp at the cold metal cutting off his breath, but to cup Bucky’s cheeks. They still feel the same in the darkness; same jaw, same dimple in the center of his chin and Steve’s thumb still fits in it perfectly. Long strands of hair tickle his fingers now and _that’s_ different but Other Steve’s Bucky’d had long hair in the photographs so it’s not a surprise. 

“We both always knew I had all the stupid with me all along,” he gasps. He can hold his breath for a long time and if he dies like this, then fine, but he will spend his last minutes happy and grateful to be near Bucky again. To be loving him. He’ll always love him, to his very last breath and that’s the god honest truth. “Bucky….”

The elevator doors explode open, the room flooding with light from Stark’s suit as he flies right at Bucky, grabbing him by the back of his tac vest and jerking him away from Steve. The metal hand releases him in shock as Bucky is flung to the floor but he barely hits the ground before he’s back on his feet and running into the maze again. There are flashes of smoke and then machine gunfire, bullets pinging off Tony’s suit as he flies after him, repulsors shooting jets of white light haphazardly. 

“Don’t hurt him,” Steve gasps, running after them. He vaults over half destroyed databanks, following Tony’s flight path. “I think I was getting to him, Stark. I had it handled!” 

“Bullshit,” Natasha snaps in his ear. “He was going to kill you and you were going to let him, you self-sacrificial asshole.” 

“So what if I was?” He flings the shield, hoping it’ll trip Bucky but he just flips over it and it imbeds in one of the databanks. 

“You need a therapist.” 

Steve rolls his eyes and skids around a corner, runs beneath Tony and he’s so close to Bucky now, if he extended his hand the tips of his fingers would probably brush his back. “Bucky, come _on_.”

Bucky puts on another burst of speed, heading straight for a panel on the wall. He punches a glass section out and slams his fist on the big red button behind it. 

Red lights start flashing. 

“Self-destruct sequence initiated, evacuate immediately. Three minutes to destruct.” A pleasant voice announces. 

“Oh shit,” Tony says. 

Steve ignores it, stepping closer to Bucky with his hands extended in front of him like he’s approaching a wild animal. Mjolnir hangs around his arm by the wrist strap. “Let me help you. I can take you somewhere safe.” 

Bucky just smirks at him and hits another panel, a door appearing in the wall. It’s already shut and sealed behind him by the time Steve reaches it. 

“ _Fuck_!” He slams his fist against the space. Hitting the same panel Bucky did does nothing. “Fuck.” 

“Steve, we have to get out of here,” Tony is tugging at his shoulder but he doesn’t care. The building is about to blow and Bucky is behind this door somewhere and he’ll bust it down with his bare hands if he has to. “C’mon, he’ll get himself out. That’s gotta be an escape route. Come _on_.”

“Self-destruct sequence initiated. Evacuate immediately. Two minutes to destruct.” 

Steve’s ears are buzzing too loudly. He can’t really hear anything, like listening underwater. He’s aware of his knees hitting the pavement but he can’t _feel_ it and now Natasha is there too, pale and dirt streaked. The shield is strapped to her arm. 

“Leave everything to Tony, huh?” Tony mutters. “Alright. Fine.” He grabs Natasha with one arm and Steve with the other. 

They’re flying, back toward the elevator and up, up, up. Out of the building. The chilly night air rushing against his face shocks Steve back into himself somewhat. He gasps as they land in the field near the jet just in time for the explosions to start. They light up the night sky and they’re deafening as explosions are and he’s right back in the middle of the war. He can’t feel his fingers. “Bucky was there,” he whispers. 

“If he got out, he’ll leave a trail. We can find him again.” Natasha stands on tiptoe to cup his face with her hands. “We would have all died if we stayed, Steve.” 

“ _If_ he got out.” He would have rather died down there in Zola’s brain than find Bucky’s body in pieces among the rubble. 

“If Hydra didn’t know we were onto them before, they definitely do now.” Tony looks away from the burning camp. “We need to get out of here.” 

“We’ll find him, Steve. He would have gotten himself out.” Natasha rubs her thumb over his cheekbone. “Come on, let’s get on the jet. All we can do now is go home and wait for them to make their move. I’ll stay with you if you want. You won’t be alone.” 

He tears his gaze away from the glowing orange sky, blinks away the dust in his eyes and looks at her. The last time someone said those words to him, it was Peggy and they were in a bombed out bar and Bucky was dead, dead, dead and his eyes had burned from tears and his throat from the bottles of whisky he had swallowed to no avail. “Promise?” 

She drops her hands, takes his free one in hers, lacing their fingers together and squeezing. “Promise.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if anyone has any suggestions for the next chapter (buckys pov) or just anything you would like to see in general, pleeeease drop them in the comments or tell me on twitter because im having a stroke trying to think of what to do next and will accept and cherish anything that might get those creative juices flowing


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a hating old steve tonight

Bucky is peering at the brand new piercings in his earlobes when Sage appears in the bathroom doorway, a large pink bubble of gum protruding from her mouth. He doesn’t really think the piercings will last; his body will probably expel the earrings or heal around them, but he has to admit, they look pretty damn good. “What’s up?” 

She sucks her gum back into her mouth. “There’s an old dude downstairs. Sam told me to keep you entertained and up here but he seemed pissed off at the guy and I’m sensing drama so I figured you’d want to know.” 

“Son of a _bitch_.” Bucky slams his hands to the counter, barely refraining from shattering the marble under his metal fist. Steve is here. Of fucking course he is. It’s not like Bucky could actually expect to avoid him forever, much as it sounds like a dream. “Thanks for telling me. I’m going down there. You should probably stay up here though.” 

“Are you kidding? If you guys are fighting a senior citizen I wanna watch.” She trails after him as he stomps out of the bathroom and toward the staircase. “I’ll just sit in a corner, quiet as anything. You won’t even know I’m there.” 

“Fine, whatever.” Bucky’s head is buzzing and he really can’t be bothered to argue with a teenager when he’s about to get into it with Steve. 

Steve, who left him. 

Steve, who didn’t care enough to bother to save him from Hydra. 

He takes the stairs three at a time. 

Sam is standing in the middle of the living room, his arms crossed over his chest and Steve is easing himself onto the couch. Bucky can practically hear the creaking joints as he steps into the room. “What are you doing here, Steven?” He steps around Sam, his face a carefully blank mask. “I thought I made myself pretty clear the last time we spoke.” 

Steve looks anguished, his face pinched and eyes darting all over Bucky, looking everywhere but in his eyes. “You both deserve explanations. Better than the ones I’ve managed to give so far. I came to…. There are things I have to tell you.” He pauses. “What are you _wearing_ , Bucky? You look…”

Bucky looks down at himself, the ripped up skinny jeans, the doc martens (surprisingly comfortable), the grey t-shirt that folds just so along the planes of his flat stomach. Sage had slathered some product into his hair while it was still wet after he showered last night and it had turned the frizzy waves he’s grown accustomed to into soft ringlets that he had scraped up into a ponytail this morning. Not all of the strands are long enough to fit into the elastic band and now the curls frame his face. All things considered, he thinks he looks pretty good. 

“I know, he’s hot, right?” Sage announces as she enters the room. She pats his shoulder as she saunters past and throws herself into an armchair. 

“He looks like a hipster,” Sam rolls his eyes. “He’s not your Ken doll, Sage.” 

Bucky ignores them, his attention on Steve. “Better be a hell of an explanation. Gotta tell you, I’m not feeling real charitable toward you at all right now.” 

“I know.” Steve bows his head, his hands folded in his lap. “You might want to sit down, this could take a while. I’ve had a lot of alone time over the past week, just me and my thoughts. I’ve realized that I went about this entirely wrong. I had missed you both so much over my lifetime and looked forward to the day that I got to see you again and I had hoped that you would be as happy to see me as I was you but what I failed to realize was that while it had been years and years for me, it was seconds for you and you have every right to be shocked and upset and angry and I’m _sorry_.”

Sam sits down on the other end of the couch. Bucky keeps standing, his hands on his hips. 

Steve sighs. “Look, when I first went back, I didn’t even know for sure if I would end up staying. I had thought to just visit and try and get some closure, get that dance, you know? I tried to put a safeguard in place but apparently it didn’t pan out or else…it would have arrived at the same time I did. But when I got there, it was working between Peg and I. It was really working and I finally… felt like myself again for the first time in years and it was just so easy and it was like I blinked and the years went by.” 

“Closure,” Bucky repeats, deadpan. “Steve, you knew her from 2012 to 2016. She died almost a decade ago. Don’t tell me you didn’t get a chance to get closure and hell, even a dance in that time period.” 

“I have to say… it is kind of weird, man.” Sam rubs a hand over his face. “You went back in time and married this woman who had been dead to you for almost ten years. You literally dated her niece.” He pauses and cringes. “ _Your_ niece.” 

“Sweet home Alabama much?” Sage pipes up. “White people.” 

“I’m gonna introduce you to Shuri, you’ll get along great,” Bucky tells her, maybe a little indulgently. He looks back at Steve. “I’m not even touching that one. You made your bed. Lie in it.” 

“To be fair, I did try to avoid her as much as possible.” Steve is flushing a deep, deep pink. “Peg always yelled at me for being weird about being around her but I couldn’t… tell her, you know? And it’s different after seeing her grow up.” 

“I can call Sharon right now,” Bucky reaches for his phone. “Let’s get her opinion on it, yeah?” He doesn’t actually have her number but he wants to see the old man squirm. 

“No!” Steve yelps. _Yelps_. “You can’t tell her anything. Never. She can never know.” 

“Dude. She’s gonna find out.” Sam arches his eyebrows. “The world is in a media uproar right now with everyone returning from the dead and all. But eventually people are going to want to know about the Avengers. They’re gonna wonder to themselves ‘hey, why is Captain America suddenly black and where did Steve Rogers go?’ and then Sharon is gonna be like yeah where did he go? And she’s gonna see you and she’s gonna laugh first because look at you and then she’s gonna slap you and feel weird because you’ve fucked and now you’re related and it’s _weird_.”

Steve folds his arms and clenches his jaw. 

“Also,” Sam suddenly looks furious. His eyebrows are drawn tight and his lips are flattened into a thin line. “I thought I was one of your best friends, Steve. You’re telling me you went back to the period of rampant racism and segregation and lived happily there? You were content with people of color being treated like that? Mr. I Can’t Ignore Bad Situations or I Will Immediately Die? You were content to hide in the house with the children?” 

“Sammy, I-”

“No. You don’t get to call me that. Bucky can call me Sammy now that we’ve decided to be friends, but not you.” 

Bucky throws up a metal fingered peace sign when Sam glances back at him. It’s not fucking likely he’ll ever call Wilson that, more likely to call him asshole in every language he knows first but they have to stand together in solidarity against Incest, Racist Steve. 

“You have to understand that this was in an entirely different timeline than the one we are in right now. Everything that happened there has no way of affecting this timeline so no matter what I did it wouldn’t have changed anything that happened here. I could have personally murdered every person in history I knew of that ever did a bad thing but it wouldn’t have done anything for this world, it would have continued just as it is now. I was living in a pocket of time that mirrors this one, but it only existed from 1945 onward.” 

“You weren’t living in a _time pocket_ , Steve.” Bucky is no scientist, but it’s not that hard to figure out after Bruce had explained the time travel tech to him when Steve had started talking about being the one to return the stones. “You created an alternate universe. 

Everything was exactly the same as ours until your appearance split it into its own timeline. You created billions of people whose lives you had the power to change for better or worse. And let me get this straight,” Bucky practically hisses through his teeth. “You created this new timeline, which created _another version of me_ and you knew he was being tortured and brainwashed and you just… what? Said ‘oh, that’s not my Bucky, what happens to him doesn’t matter’?” He rubs his flesh hand over his face and lets out a short, shuddery breath. “Jesus fucking Christ. Okay. Don’t even answer that. Answer me this instead: assuming you went back in time some point after the Valkyrie crashed and we won the war, what happened to the other Steve? The one in the ice? You left without the shield and brought it back with you so clearly you encountered him. Is he going to encounter that timeline’s Winter Soldier in 2014?” 

“Um.” Steve shoves his hands through his hair, his elbows resting on his knees. He doesn’t look at any of them, staring intently at his feet. “No. There is no other Steve. When I got to that timeline, the first thing I did was go to the Valkyrie crash site to retrieve the shield. I knew it would raise too many questions if he was ever found and I had been living through the years publicly already. It was…necessary to eliminate that threat.” 

“Dude.” Sam is gaping at Steve, hands covering his mouth. “That’s cold.” 

“You _killed yourself_?” Sage really isn’t holding to her promise of sitting in the corner quiet as a mouse or whatever she had said. “Just fucking… said There Can Be Only One and shot yourself? Oh my god, dude. Oh my _god_.”

Bucky is really less surprised about that than he has been about any of this so far. It makes sense, in a tactical way for Steve to live his life there undisturbed. It’s kind of fucked up, but he can see where he might do the same thing. “So you doomed that timeline to a Hydra takeover. Without you there to stop Project Insight-”

“There was no Project Insight. My timeline ended in 2012 when the Avengers lost the battle with the Chitauri. I made the timeline jump when I realized what was going to happen. Thanos came through after Loki and the Chitauri finished ripping New York apart and his army made child’s play of murdering half the population. There was no snap to undo; he didn’t have the stones yet. They were just killed.” Steve’s age bent shoulders are shaking. “I thought I would be able to prevent that timeline from going through all of that, but I only made it happen sooner.” 

“Bruce _told you_ not to mess with the time-space continuum, Steve.” The thing about Steve being all old and wrinkled and almost unrecognizable is that it’s easy enough to shut off the part of himself that demands Bucky comfort and protect Steve Above All Else. He folds his arms over his chest. “I’m sorry but if you’re looking for sympathy from me… I can’t give it to you.” 

“What the hell is your _problem_ , you asshole?” Steve’s head jerks up, anger simmering in his faded blue eyes, his jaw clenched tight. “You didn’t even have to live a minute without me, I’m _here_. Maybe I’m not the same as I was but I sure as hell wouldn’t have been the same as you remembered me being before you dusted. Do you have any _idea_ what those five years were like? I couldn’t keep fighting. It was time for me to retire.” 

Steve wants a fight. Of course he does. Steve can deny it all he likes and he might say he was happy retired and raising his children but Steve always wants a fucking fight. And Bucky is going to give it to him. “What’s _my_ problem?” He drops his hands to his side, strides across the room so he’s standing right in front of Steve, so the old man has to lean back and look up to meet his eye. “My problem is the same as it’s always been. My problem is you and your _goddamn hardheaded stupidity_. You never fucking _think_!” With every word that leaves his mouth, his voice gets shriller. He can’t be bothered to care. “God. You’re so stupid, Steve. Did you even consider for a second that you could have retired here and now? No one blames you for wanting to stop fighting, idiot. You could have stopped. You have so many people here that _love you_ and you left them all. You left us all. Sure, you’re here. But you’re… you’re not going to be here for very long.” He lets out a shaky breath. “Did you even consider that you didn’t have to go back in time to find someone to live your life with? To get married if that was what you wanted?” 

“Who, Buck?” Steve shoves to his feet with a wince. He’s shorter now than before, the top of his head even with Bucky’s nose. “Sharon was never going to marry me. Neither of us wanted that. So you tell me who.” 

The room is absolutely silent. 

Sam is in his peripheral vision, silently face-palming repeatedly. 

Bucky swallows hard. “Are you really that stupid, Steve?” He tilts his head back, looking up at the ceiling. His relationship with Steve is already in tatters, he’s already lost him. There’s really nothing holding him back from revealing this. He hopes it hits Steve like a sucker punch to the gut. “I have been in love with you since I was eleven years old. Not even Hydra could take that from me. You were always at the end of the rope I follow to find my way back home.” 

Steve sits down hard. 

He’s gaping up at Bucky, eyes wide, jaw dropped. “Y- you-”

Sage is suddenly up out of her chair and across the room, to stand next to him. She slips one hand into Bucky’s and glares down at Steve. “You say a single rude thing to him and I promise I will make you regret the day you were born. I’m not afraid to curb stomp an old man.” 

“I…I wasn’t… I _wouldn’t_ … Bucky, oh god, I didn’t _know_.”

Bucky squeezes Sage’s hand and takes a deep breath. This thing, this deep dark secret he’s held so close to his chest for so, so long is out in the world, bared to the most important person that could ever know it. He wishes he could say that it’s like a massive weight off his shoulders, a rush of relief, but it’s not. There’s no happy ending for people like him. He’s just empty. It doesn’t hurt any less. “I guess I did pretty good at keeping it hidden.” 

“I don’t know how I missed it,” Steve whispers. He runs shaking fingers over his face. “I… Bucky… I don’t regret my life. I _can’t_. But- god, Bucky. You…you should have said something. All this _time_. You should have said something. It…would have changed things.” 

The words sink into him slowly, like molasses. “What are you saying, Steve?” There are really only two answers here and he’s not sure he likes either one of them. 

Steve looks up, meets his gaze and it’s not pity in his eyes. It’s shock and regret and Bucky feels _sick_. “Your feelings weren’t- _aren’t_ \- unrequited. I think we both always knew what to the end of the line meant.” 

Bucky starts laughing. He has to. Or else he’s going to lose it completely. He pulls his hand away from Sage, paces away to the window on the other side of the room and stares down at the street. The sill splinters under his grip, his shoulders shaking as he laughs and laughs. As he shatters apart from the inside out. 

“Sam. Maybe you should leave,” Steve says quietly. 

“Yeah…. Come on, Barbie.” 

“If you hurt him, it’s on _sight_.”

It’s a little late for that. 

But it’s okay. Bucky knows pain like one knows a lover. 

He waits until the other two have left the room, until the door has closed behind them. He looks down at his hands, hands that have killed and soothed away pain. A teardrop falls from his eye and splatters across metal. “You’re a hypocrite, Steve.” He _hates_ the way his voice trembles. How his bottom lip shakes in his reflection in the window. He hates himself for feeling this way, for ever letting himself get attached to the tiny asthmatic that couldn’t stay out of back alley fights for the life of him. “You know that, right?” 

“I know.” 

“God.” His voice breaks on the word. “The end of the line? It’s _bullshit_.” He turns around, faces Steve. Lets the other man see the tears falling freely, silently down his cheeks, the heartbreak he just can’t hide. “You stood at that platform and told me _it’s gonna be okay_ like anything about this situation is fucking okay. You lived a life entirely without me and you slept soundly at night knowing full well that I was being tortured. You told me that you couldn’t bring yourself to save that version of me from what I had to go through because of the consequences it would have had for the future but you killed the other version of yourself so you could play house without having to answer any questions and doomed that timeline to mass slaughter anyway. You never meant to the end of the line. What you _did_ was tell me ‘Here’s the line. Find your way alone.’” He rubs his face against his shoulder, the soft jersey of the t-shirt soaking up his tears. “Look me in the eye and tell me you love me. Go on. Do it.” 

Steve pushes himself to his feet and strides across the room, his jaw set and shoulders squared. He tilts his chin up to meet Bucky’s eyes. “I love you.” 

Bucky brings his flesh hand up to cup the side of Steve’s face, the tips of his fingers sliding through age brittle hair. He rubs his thumb over Steve’s cheekbone and leans in. “Liar.” 

He drops his arm and turns and walks out of the room. 

Leaves everything he ever wanted behind with his heart shattered on the floor at an old man’s feet. 

Sam and Sage are in the kitchen, sitting in awkward silence. Sam is staring into a cup of black coffee. Bucky takes it out of his hand and downs it in one gulp and wishes it were stronger. Wishes he could get drunk on it the way he used to get wasted on three shots of whiskey. Wishes like hell for things he can never have. He sits down on the floor and lets Zeus crawl out from under the table and into his lap. 

The front door opens and closes slowly. 

There’s a yelp and thudding. 

Sam jumps to his feet and runs toward the hallway. He’s back a few seconds later, sticking his head in the kitchen doorway. “Steve fell down the front steps.” 

“Good,” Bucky mutters into Zeus’ fur. There’s about seven stairs out front and they’re pretty steep. 

“I hope it hurt,” Sage adds. 

“I realize we’re all rightfully angry at him right now but I think he broke something so can one of you please call 911 while I go help him?” 

“I’ll do it.” Bucky pulls out his phone and dials the three numbers, pressing it against his ear. Sam offers him a smile before disappearing again, out the front door from the sound of it. He pushes to his feet and follows the other man, leaning against the doorframe as Sam kneels next to Steve’s prone form on the ground. 

“911, what’s your emergency?” 

“Yeah, hi, this old guy fell down the front stairs and maybe broke something.” Bucky tilts his head and wedges the phone between his shoulder and head. The operator asks for an address and he rattles it off. 

“Sir, the ambulance is on the way.” 

“Okay. No rush.” 

Sam throws him a dirty look. 

Bucky hangs up the phone and shoves it back in his pocket. “Karma.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there may or may not be an update next week because i will be on vacation for the majority of the week and i'm not taking my laptop with me. a huge thank you to everyone who commented with suggestions and theories in the last chapter, i'm sorry i'm terrible at replying but i read every single one of them and show them to my friends and talk about your ideas i love yall so much!!! ur seriously so awesome!!! and creative!!! :D some of yall even guessed my literal plot i won't confirm who but yall rlly did it on me like that. thank you for reading!!!


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi hi hi surprise im actually NOT dead. i was hoping to be able to post this chapter earlier but when i got home from vacation i came down with a NASTY cold and it went into bronchitis and i still feel like shit but i managed to get this churned out just in time for that two week window i gave yall.
> 
> BIG BIG TRIGGER WARNINGS ON THIS ONE!!!!!!!!!  
> im not joking this chapter is literally so heavy that i almost had a couple of panic attacks writing it and i had to walk around my house to calm down because it required me to put myself in an absolutely horrible headspace to get out. aside from our general dark depression themes, there's a very graphic, intense suicide attempt scene in this one. you absolutely should not read it if you are at all in a mental place where you feel like it could be harmful to you. IT CAN BE SKIPPED! when you get to the line 'he goes to the gun safe' SKIP to the triple asterisk that signals the end of the scene. your mental health is more important than a scene in a fic so please please take care of yourself.
> 
> without further ado: the chapter!

“Steve, I’m telling you this with the utmost conviction. You’re a fucking idiot.” 

“You said you would stay with me,” Steve doesn’t look at Natasha as he peels off the tac suit and shoves it into a duffel bag with the rest of his weapons, leaving him standing in the bay of the jet in a plain tank top and the skin tight spandex tights they gave him to wear under the suit. He looks like a fucking ballerina and it definitely leaves nothing to the imagination. “Not even half an hour ago, you said it.” 

“Okay, yeah, I did. But I meant in like… a safe house. Not your goddamn _apartment_ , which is the first place a Hydra assassin is going to look for you, especially considering it’s bugged to all hell.” 

“Good. Let them- let _him_ \- come to me. Right to my doorstep.” He zips up the bag and swings it over his shoulder as the jet touches down on the roof of the tower with a bump. “I understand if you don’t want to put yourself in that position and you don’t have to come with me or monitor me or anything but this is what I’m going to do and you can’t stop me.” He hadn’t known his apartment was bugged but he’s not really surprised by it either. They were probably monitoring him to make sure he didn’t go off the rails and try to kill himself again. It’s what he would do were he in their shoes. And it’s not like he hadn’t considered it, in the bleak, lonely weeks between waking up and becoming an Avenger. There just wasn’t anything to live _for_ , the world had been spinning without his help for seventy years, it didn’t need him. No one needed him. No one even cared to know him. 

It’s different now. 

Natasha blows out a frustrated breath and shoves her hair away from her face. “Fine, we do it your way. When it goes down in flames, I’m gonna tell you I told you so, but you’re the Captain.” 

The sun is coming up, painting the eastern horizon over Brooklyn in vibrant pinks and oranges, awash with colors that still make his breath catch in his throat. He’d never known just how much he was missing before the serum, but right now he would give it all up just to go back. Even for just a moment. To see Bucky Barnes, sweaty and covered in grease from a day spent fixing engines on the docks sauntering down the street, a jaunty whistle on his pursed lips and his cap tilted at a rakish angle. 

They traipse back into the tower like his entire world hasn’t tilted on its axis in the past three hours, like he hadn’t had his hands on Bucky and lost him _again_. Like they know he’s alive when they don’t, they really don’t. Tony barely pauses to confirm what their plans are before he’s off to his residential floor to go to bed. He does take a moment to tell them they can take their pick of the vehicles in the garage if they want and that Jarvis will get them the keys as long as they promise to return them. Neither of them have any personal belongings in the tower to collect, so they go straight to the garage. 

Steve makes a beeline for the souped-up motorcycle, running his palms over the gleaming black chrome and supple leather, a smile playing at his lips. There’s neon red flames painted along the sides and he’s seen enough motorcycles in the future to know that the engine on this one is definitely custom. It would probably be purring if he turned the key. He secures the duffle bag with his suit and the shield to the luggage rack on the back. 

“I might have known you’d head straight for that, Rogers.” Natasha nudges him with her elbow. “Can you even drive, city boy?” 

“I can drive.” He bites the words out, like even the thought of him not being able to is offensive and downright laughable. Like he didn’t total about fifteen military vehicles in the European countryside during the war and scare Bucky half out of his mind every time he wrapped another jeep around a tree. He hasn’t tried driving in the future yet, hadn’t really had any reason to with the subway and the taxis and this body that can run for hours and not get tired. But hey, it can’t be _that_ different and he was _damn_ good on a motorcycle. 

_Damn reckless, you mean_. Bucky would have a conniption if he was here and he was himself. But he’s not. 

“Jarvis,” Steve looks around, still not used to the AI. 

A panel in the floor opens and a little platform with a key ring on it slides up. “Will you be requiring helmets, Captain Rogers?” 

Steve grabs the keys, twirling them around his forefinger. “Nope. Not for me at least,” he glances at Natasha, raising an eyebrow in question. 

“I’m good. I trust my own driving. Thanks, Jarvis.” She makes a grab for the keys and he yanks his arm up, dangling them high in the air, higher than her arm reach even on tiptoe. It doesn’t stop her from jumping and grabbing his bicep, flipping herself easily up to straddle his shoulder. He tosses the keys to his other hand. “Give those to me, Steven.” 

The first time she had pulled the thigh trick on him, when they had spent the day on the beach sparring, he had frozen up, entirely out of his depth and afraid to put his hands anywhere and he’d never been in a position like that with a woman _ever_ , but she had wasted no time in kicking him in the chest and telling him to throw her the fuck off. So he has no qualms about wrapping his free hand around her ribs and flipping her off of him. She lands on her feet, of course she does. Like a fucking cat. “Nice try, Romanoff. I’m driving.” He straddles the bike, smirking when she punches his shoulder. It’s hard enough that he feels it, but hardly enough to make him budge. 

“If you crash this thing and we die, I’m gonna kill you in your sleep.” She gets on behind him, her hands gripping his sides, just under his ribs. 

“Such _faith_ ,” he chides, turning the key in the ignition. The bike comes to life, the engine rumbling lowly under them. “Hello, sweetheart.” He murmurs and grips the handlebars. He smirks over his shoulder at Natasha, “Hold tight.” 

They roar out of the garage and into the flow of traffic at a higher speed than is probably strictly legal, but he doesn’t care. He has an assassin to lure into his home. He lays on the gas, weaving through traffic and around wreckage yet to be cleaned up from the battle. Natasha’s grip gets tighter, clinging to his waist like an octopus, her front plastered to his back. 

“You said you could fucking drive,” She shouts in his ear. 

“I can!” He revs the engine and drives the bike up a pile of rubble to jump it over the gap in the middle of a collapsed bridge. They land hard enough to jar his teeth. “See?” 

“No, you can’t!” 

He pretends like he can’t hear her over the roar of the engine and the wind in his ears and the cars honking at him as he speeds toward Brooklyn and the apartment that SHIELD had set him up with. With the road closures and the insane traffic, it ought to take him a good few hours to get there, but he parks the bike outside his building in under thirty minutes, having taken every possible shortcut at well over 150 miles per hour. His face and arms are cold and stinging pleasantly from the rush of wind against his skin as he dismounts and turns to Natasha with a smile. It drops from his face when he sees her murderous glare. 

“I am _never_ getting in or on another vehicle with you so long as I fucking live,” She snatches the keys from his hand and shoves them down the front of her shirt, where she _knows_ he won’t even consider going after them. “I can drive!” Her voice is fake deep, a mocking imitation of his. He winces when her boot makes solid contact with his shin. “Fuck you.” 

“We made good time and we didn’t crash, I don’t see what the issue is.” He smirks as he undoes the buckles holding his shield and bag to the bike. The bag goes over his shoulder and the shield on his arm as he heads toward the door. He punches in the code to open the main door and bounds up the stairs with Natasha on his heels. His apartment is locked by a biometric system and he has to lean over to let it scan his eyeball, which still makes him uncomfortable, before the lock clicks and he can push the door open. 

The apartment is dark and empty and as sterile as the day SHIELD had dropped him off here. Steve dumps his duffle in the entryway, kicking it across the marble floor so it thuds against the wall. He hangs the shield on the hook next to the door as Natasha glances around. “Do you want a tour?” 

“Nah, I know the layout.” 

He doesn’t bother to ask _how_ she knows. She’d probably been assigned to monitor him or something. He rolls his shoulders, grimacing at the ache in the tight, knotted muscles. “Okay. You can have the spare bedroom. I’m gonna shower and then see about breakfast.” Any perishables in his fridge are no doubt spoiled by now unless SHIELD has had an agent dropping by with fresh groceries. He would like to hope that they’ve been putting all of their focus into the aftermath of the battle but more likely than not, they would probably think something as lowly as cleanup falls to the city to deal with now that the fighting is over. 

“Sure, I’m just going to go offer prayers of thanks to all of the gods that we didn’t crash.” 

“You know what, Romanoff….” He rolls his eyes. It wasn’t even _that_ bad. 

“Bite me. From now on, _I_ drive.” 

He leaves her to her ‘prayers’ and locks himself in the bathroom, maybe standing under the hot spray of the shower for longer than strictly necessary but he still isn’t over the marvel of endless hot water and water pressure. Or at least that’s what he’ll say if asked. In reality, as soon as he’s stripped and under the water, his legs give out and he ends up sitting on the floor of the shower, choking on the sobs that won’t stop coming, the water washing his tears from his face like rain. 

He’d had Bucky so close and he could have brought him home if he’d just been better, faster. If they hadn’t activated the Zola computer and had searched the compound and _found him_ before he could be activated as the Winter Soldier. He’d had Bucky right in his hands and he had lost him again. 

He always fucking lost him. 

***

Living with Natasha is kind of like living with a cat. For the most part she keeps to herself, pacing around the rooms and staring, squinty eyed out of the windows as if she expects Bucky to just show up outside like a bird or something even though they’re four stories up. She’s a pickier eater than he expected a spy to be although when he brings that up to her she practically hisses and ignores him for the rest of the afternoon. But when he makes pirozhki for dinner that night in apology, the way Bucky’s ma had taught him, she stares at him for a long time and then. Then she hugs him. 

“Tell anyone I did that and I’ll kill you,” she mutters, curling up in the corner of his couch and doing something with the TV remote. “C’mon, we’re gonna watch The Ring.” 

“What’s that?” Steve sits down on the opposite end. The first day of their temporary roommate situation, she had worn one of his shirts, practically swimming in it even though it was tight on him. The next morning he had come out of his bedroom and found her sorting through a bunch of shopping bags full of clothes that she had hung up in the closet of the spare room and had been wearing since, but she had kept that one shirt, wearing it to sleep in. She’s in it now and he can see the goose bumps on her bare legs even in the dim lighting so he balances his plate on his knees, pulling the fuzzy blanket off the back of the couch and draping it over her. 

She smirks over at him, “Oh, you’re gonna love it.” 

He hates it. 

Not even halfway through the movie and he’s practically coming out of his skin, his arms wrapped tight around her waist and his face hidden in her shoulder. 

Natasha is giggling at him, petting his head like he’s some crying puppy or something. “Aw, who knew Captain America is scared of a little horror movie?” 

“Can we turn it off?” He definitely doesn’t whine. He lived through the worst World War Two had to offer, he ought to be able to handle this easily but it’s… really fucking disturbing. He’s only seen a few modern films and still isn’t used to the fact that they’re shot so well it’s nearly impossible to differentiate what’s fake from what’s real. “Please?” 

“Maybe we should watch The Shining instead…”

“No more horror! Can’t we watch a Disney movie instead? I heard there’s a ton of them now.” 

“Tell you what,” she pauses the movie and leans back. Her eyes dance with suppressed laughter. “You finish watching this with me and I’ll let you play with my hair for the rest of the movie.” 

That’s just underhanded play. He scowls but his fingers twitch of their own accord, wanting to reach, to twine into the messy curls. “I hate you.” 

“Yeah, yeah,” she pushes him away so that they can shift positions. The overly lush SHIELD issued couch is deep enough that he can sit cross legged against the back and have plenty of room for her to sit in front of him. She hits the button on the controller to resume the movie and he takes a deep breath, carding his hands through her curls. “So what’s with the whole playing with hair calms you down thing?” 

He chews on his lower lip, trying to keep his gaze away from the screen. “I guess it started when I was about fourteen? It was around that time that I realized I was pretty much going to be small forever. All the other boys were growing like weeds and their voices were dropping and they all had girlfriends and I was still looking about nine. I started to get these…panic attacks, I guess. I hated going out because I was so ashamed of myself and the bullies at school were just getting worse and worse. I tried to hide it, but eventually Bucky found me in the middle of an attack and he thought it was an asthma thing. We had a system- he would always put my hand on his chest so I could try to match my breathing to his. But somehow my hand ended up in his hair instead…it was getting long and his ma was always begging him to get it cut but he thought it made him look more rugged or something. It kept happening and eventually he just started putting my hands in his hair every time,” he swallows hard; separates the strands of curls and starts twisting them around his pointer fingers into perfect little ringlets. “His hair curled too… it drove me crazy how bad I wanted my hands in it all the time.” 

“Oh, you didn’t say it was like _that_ , Rogers.” 

“I figured it was kind of obvious,” he mutters. It was probably foolish but he’d been spending most of his sleepless nights dreaming in shades of love and wedding bells. It would be a long, long road to rehabilitate Bucky and get him back from the clutches of Hydra’s brainwashing but on all that is holy, if he gets the chance to tell him how he feels, he won’t waste it. To do that, in this bright, hopeful new future where he won’t be criminalized for loving another man would be sacrilege. It’s a terrifying prospect, like teetering on the edge of a cliff because what if. What if Bucky doesn’t return his feelings? What if Bucky _hates_ him for them? But Steve Rogers has never backed down from the truth a day in his life and he’s not going to start now. Not when it’s so important. 

“I had my suspicions but I didn’t want to assume anything,” she twists to smile at him. “It’s okay now, you know.” 

“I know. And I never had an issue with it even when it wasn’t. I always knew what I wanted.” There had been times growing up when he had been afraid for himself and upset at the world for telling him that the way he was should be eradicated, that he was a diseased _thing_ to be beaten into submission. He had never been a stranger to spitting blood. 

“Well… I had been thinking about trying to set you up on dates, get you back in the dating scene, but I guess you’re not interested?” 

“Nope.” Like he would have ever been ready for that, even if he hadn’t found out about Bucky. “Now watch your movie and let me braid your hair in peace.” 

“Alright, Rogers. Alright.” 

***

A week and a half passes with no noise from Hydra and no sightings of the Winter Soldier. Steve bites his nails down to the quick even though they heal within an hour and Natasha yells at him for it. They start joining in with the cleanup effort in Midtown during the days, Natasha sticking to him like glue at first, but when nothing happens, she starts to let him out of her sight more. They should have realized they were getting to comfortable, but one evening she opts to stay in Manhattan and get drinks with Clint while Steve heads back to Brooklyn without her. 

The Winter Soldier is waiting in his apartment when he gets home. 

Even after seventy years, Steve is still as attuned to Bucky’s presence as he ever was. He looks calmly at the ghost lurking in the shadow of his hallway, puts down his keys and resolutely ignores his shield and Mjolnir hanging on the wall and says, “Hey, Buck.” He _doesn’t_ throw himself across the space between them and into the other man’s arms. But he wants to. 

He’s expecting it, but he still flinches when a knife flies through the air and imbeds itself in the wall an inch away from his head. 

“Bucky, please. I know you’re in there somewhere. Remember me,” his voice breaks. “Please, _please_ remember me.” 

The second knife grazes his thigh, a kiss of heat and there’s blood trickling down his leg but he doesn’t move. Other Steve had said he’d had to let his Bucky nearly kill him before he broke free of the brainwashing. Whatever it takes. 

“You are not fighting back?” The Winter Soldier cocks his head to one side. The Brooklyn drawl is gone, accent fully Russian now but it’s still comforting, immediately bringing back memories of nights spent at the Barnes’ little apartment, listening to them talking in a language he could barely understand enough to follow the conversation. It’s still Bucky’s voice and it almost brings Steve to his knees hearing it. _Alive, alive, alive_ , his heart practically sings. 

“I’m not going to fight you. You’re my _friend_.”

“You’re my mission.” Bucky steps into the light and Steve’s breath catches hard in his chest. He looks more than worse for the wear; dark, smudgy circles under his blank eyes, long, greasy hair hanging limply around his face. But he’s muscled all over like he had never been, even in the war. He moves with a terrifyingly silent grace. He tilts his chin up, a ghost of the cocky boy he used to be and points a gun right at Steve’s heart. “Give me one good reason I shouldn’t finish it right now.” 

Steve takes a deep breath, his eyes fluttering closed for only a moment. There was _hope_ here. “I know you don’t remember any of it. I know. But I know Hydra is hurting you and even if you never remember me, I want to help you not be hurt anymore. I can keep you _safe_.”

Bucky flinches, just slightly, not enough that anyone would notice if they didn’t know every single one of his tells the way Steve does. It’s the way his chin tightens and his eyebrows draw together, just a little. The gun wavers, and then lowers. “Tell me. About me.” 

If it were possible, Steve would be walking on _air_ right now. He’s going to get Bucky back. This is it. He’s really getting him back, he _is _. He isn’t going to be alone anymore. “Let’s sit down-”__

____

The figure flickers into existence beside Bucky, out of thin air. A hooded, faceless figure in a gray suit, red circles where there should be eyes. Steve barely takes a step forward when the figure thrusts its hand _into Bucky’s chest_ and twists hard. 

____

Bucky’s body hits the floor before he can even scream. 

____

Steve lunges for the figure but it walks right through a wall and disappears. His breath is coming in short gasps. The floor is hard and cold beneath his knees when he kneels next to Bucky’s body and Bucky isn’t _breathing_ or _moving_. He swallows the bile in the back of his throat and rips the black tac vest clean off of the prone body. When he presses his ear to Bucky’s chest, there’s no heartbeat. “No,” he’s hoarse, there’s a vice wrapping around his lungs and squeezing tighter and tighter. There’s lead in his stomach and in his throat and his ears are ringing. “No. Fuck, _no_!”

____

This can’t be happening. This is a nightmare, a terrible dream and he’s _going_ to wake up. Bucky isn’t really limp in his arms, cradled against his chest as he rocks back and forth. The tears falling down his cheeks aren’t real. “I promised I could keep you safe. I promised.” He can’t _breathe_. He had the only thing that matters, his entire _world_ , practically in his hands and he stood there and watched a ghost take it away. He failed. 

____

He fucking failed. 

____

Again. 

____

He always failed. 

____

“I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry,” he runs shaking fingers through a week’s growth of stubble, over chapped lips that are never going to speak again, closes blue, unseeing eyes. “I love you, I’m so sorry.” 

____

He’s still sobbing in the floor when Natasha finds him. 

____

***

____

There’s a funeral. 

____

Steve sits in his boxers on the end of his bed, staring at the dark suit hanging on the back of his bedroom door. Tony had sent someone to deliver it this morning and there’s a car waiting to take them to the cemetery. He should get dressed. 

____

His hands haven’t stopped shaking for two days. 

____

He’d watched through a daze as the team Natasha had called in to retrieve Bucky’s body had come into his apartment and taken him away, curled into a corner of the couch and sobbing himself into a hyperventilating mess while Natasha held his hand. He hadn’t gotten out of bed at all the next day. But he was expected to show up for this. He _should_ go to the funeral. 

____

He goes to the gun safe in the back of his closet instead. 

____

The lock isn’t really a lock, it’s a screen that scans his handprint and then the door swings open by itself. There’s a selection of rifles and pistols and handguns, hundreds of rounds of ammo. He goes with what he knows; a small revolver with six bullets and a silencer. It should only take one, but then again, he should have died when he crashed a plane into the arctic but that hadn’t worked out either. 

____

He almost drops the bullets as he methodically loads the chambers, trembling, sweaty fingers slipping on the cold metal. The safety clicks softly when he turns it off. 

____

He doesn’t remember walking back to sit at the foot of his bed but he’s there now. The tears won’t stop fucking coming and he hates himself for them. He has no right to cry. This is _his fault_. He deserves this. Death for death. His penance. 

____

He _relishes_ the way his chest feels like it’s caving in, how he can’t draw breath around the sobs. The metal barrel of the gun should be cold against the underside of his chin but he can’t feel it. It’s like floating just outside of his body, some terrible, selfish part of him screaming from behind a glass wall for him to _stop_ , that he _doesn’t want to die_ , but he does. He does, he does, he does. He deserves it. 

____

“Steve?” 

____

Natasha shouldn’t be here. Outside his door. 

____

He’s so tired. 

____

His arms are so heavy, like they’re made of lead. He slides down, lies on his side in the floor. The gun is in his mouth now, the metal tastes like blood on his tongue. Steve hates the taste of blood. It’s like the war all over again. Slitting throats and bullet holes in foreheads and blood spraying all over him. There’s so much blood on his hands. He almost wishes the ghost had let Bucky’s blood flow, let it coat the floor and coat Steve, something that would give him tangible, permanent proof that this was his fault. He wants it so thick under his fingernails that it looks like he’s been scraping red paint off walls with his bare hands. It’s what he deserves because this is his fault. 

____

He needs to pull the goddamn trigger. 

____

He needs to do it, he needs to stop thinking, stop feeling. He needs to punch the life out of his own body by way of a cold bullet. He’ll greet the reaper with gratitude and let himself be led down to the lowest circle of hell because it’s where he deserves to be. With the worst of the world’s sinners. Maybe he’ll end up sharing a cell with the Red Skull. 

____

_We’ve left humanity behind_.

____

He needs to pull the trigger. Why can’t he pull the _fucking trigger_?

____

The door opens slowly.

____

“Steve?” Natasha peers around the door. Freezes. Eyes wide. “Oh, _Steve_. Fuck, hey. Can I come in?” 

____

He shrugs and doesn’t meet her gaze. It doesn’t matter that she’s here. She’s seen enough death that his won’t matter, it won’t be traumatic. As soon as he can get his shaking, leaden fingers to fucking tighten on the trigger. He needs to die. He’s fucking useless. All he does is get the people he cares about hurt. Killed. A lifeless body in his hallway floor. 

____

She steps into the room slowly, her hands deliberately loose at her sides as she kneels next to him. “Steve,” her voice is so soft. He probably wouldn’t be able to hear it if not for his enhanced hearing. 

____

There’s wretched, choking noises filling the room. Sobs, forcing themselves out around the barrel between his lips. He curls tighter into himself. 

____

“Steve,” she keeps saying his name, gently. Like he fucking deserves tenderness. “Please give me the gun.” 

____

No. No, he _needs_ it. He needs to pull the trigger. It’s got to end. The pain of existing has _got to fucking end_. His hand tightens on the grip. He still can’t get his forefinger to twitch down with enough pressure. _Why can’t he fucking do it_?

____

“Okay. Shit, okay, you can keep the gun.” She’s really pale, lines between her eyebrows and around her tight mouth. “I won’t take it. Can you tell me why you’re doing this though? Just take it out of your mouth and talk to me for a moment.” 

____

Why not? It would probably be better if it was against his temple anyway. And he hates the taste of metal. His voice is hoarse in his own ears, like he’s been gargling on broken glass. “I can’t save anyone that matters.” 

____

She bites her lip, her eyes tracking to the gun that he’s holding against the floor because his arms are too heavy to move up. “You can still save yourself. You matter, Steve. _You matter_.”

____

“I don’t.” 

____

“You’re my goddamn friend and you _do_. Please let me have the gun.” 

____

She barely knows him. She’s a spy and a liar and she probably doesn’t know what real friendship is. There’s no reason for him to believe her words. But he’s so tired. So he relaxes his grip, lets her pull the gun from his hand. “Maybe tomorrow.” 

____

***

____

Natasha gets Steve on his feet and into the suit somehow. He’s kind of floating still, just doing whatever she tells him to. They’re in a car and then they’re not. They’re at a cemetery and he watches Bucky’s body being lowered into a grave that reads

____

_Yasha Barinov_

_James Buchanan Barnes_

_1917-1945_

_Son, Brother, Best Friend, War Hero_

____

He’s next to his parents and his sister, in the plot they got for him even when they had no body to put in it. Steve touches the top of each gravestone with a shaking hand. He kneels in the grass in front of the parents that weren’t his but raised him as much as his own mother did and he bows his head and apologizes through the tears that threaten to close his throat completely. There’s blood in his mouth from biting his tongue, but he deserves it. He deserves to hurt. 

____

He’s curled into the corner of the car, as small as he can make himself to hide the tears that just won’t stop coming when Natasha gasps and grabs his arm hard. “ _Steve_. What about the other letter in the notebook that your future version left? He said if you can’t salvage this timeline’s Bucky that it was an alternate plan, right?” 

____

They stare at each other. 

____

***

____

Steve rips open the envelope with shaking hands, pulling out the letter. He’s sitting on a couch in Tony’s living room at the tower, Tony and Pepper and Natasha all watching him. They have the tablet and weird watch looking device that Other Steve left laid out on the coffee table. His eyes are still swollen from all the tears he’s shed in the past two days. He isn’t even entirely sure that whatever is in this letter- and he has a fair idea that it probably has something to do with time travel given the variables and Tony practically vibrating with anticipation- is something he wants to do. It feels like cheating, like disrespect to the memory of this Bucky to go traipsing back through time to fix his mistakes. He doesn’t deserve that second chance. 

____

Especially since they have no fucking idea what killed him. Steve hadn’t been able to give the best description, in his distress, and he had barely gotten a glimpse of the thing- the _ghost_ before it disappeared again. So even if he _could_ go back in time, there’s no guarantee he would be able to prevent it from happening again. 

____

He licks his lips and takes a deep breath and unfolds the letter. 

____

_Steve, I’ll admit I’m including this for two different reasons, both of them mostly terrible. I’ve had my doubts that you’ll be able to recover Bucky in your timeline. Whether because Hydra catches onto you and either kills him before you can get him or because he can’t be broken from his programming and someone on your team is forced to kill him to keep him from killing you. Hell, I don’t even know if you’ll be able to find him. So in part this letter is for you, because I know the way we go off the rails when we lose Bucky. But it’s also in part for me, and you’re going to hate me for this, but because I’m doing something with my life and if I can, I’m trying to give my Bucky something better than what I can offer him. You see, I’m not good enough for him and he’s got so much to live for. But I’m this twisted, dark thing that’s been so damaged by the past five years that I can’t live like this anymore. I only kept going as long as I have because I knew if I had killed myself in that horrible interim between the first snap and the second, then Natasha wouldn’t have been long behind me. I couldn’t do that to her, I couldn’t make her lose more than she already had. She’s my best friend, you know? We’ve been all each other has for the most part over these years. And now she’s dead. She gave her life for the universe and she told me to get a life but I just can’t do that in this reality, this post-apocalyptic waste. So I’m going back to 1945 and I’m going to marry Peggy and I’m going to live out the rest of my life with her. This is where you come in. You see, my Bucky is going to be alone now. He’s not going to take it well and he won’t ever understand that I’m no good for him and he shouldn’t be around me. He won’t understand that if I have to watch him go away again, I won’t be able to get back up. That it will be it for me, for good. So I have to leave him before he can leave me. But you… you haven’t been broken yet, not the way I have. I’m trying to do a good thing here, I really am. The tablet has all of the information regarding how you can travel to my timeline. I know you’re going to worry about the one that you’re currently in, but I promise they will be fine without you. And there’s a Bucky here that deserves everything in the world. He deserves a Steve that can love him the way he should be loved. I just can’t be that person anymore. But you can. I know you can. Please just consider it. I hate the idea of him being alone for the rest of his life. I know he isn’t your Bucky but he could be. The password for the tablet is ITSGONNABEOKAY. Steve._

____

He flings the letter to the ground like it burned him, jumping to his feet and pacing away, his hands raking harshly through his hair. What the fuck. What the _fuck_? So this other Steve got his Bucky back from Hydra and back from the snap and he just…what? Ran back off to the past to marry Peggy? The wound from losing her is still fresh for Steve now, from losing what they had the potential for but for God’s sake, they never even went steady. Colonel Philips could have put Bucky and Peggy both in front of a firing squad and told Steve to pick one and he would have chosen Bucky without hesitation. He was enamored with Peggy but he _loved_ Bucky. He would give up a hundred futures with her for just one with Bucky. 

____

It’s true that this other Bucky isn’t _his_ Bucky. But. But he can’t imagine how it must feel for him to know that his Steve couldn’t stand to stay with him, that he had left him for a woman he’d only kissed once. And Steve can’t just _leave him alone_ to that bleak future. 

____

Really, this timeline probably would have to find a way to get along without him whether him jumping to another one was an option or not. Because Natasha might have caught him before he could shoot himself in the head this time, but they wouldn’t be able to keep him here for long. 

____

He turns on his heel, snatches the tablet up from the table and enters the password. He dangles it in front of Tony. “Look sharp, Stark. We’re building a time machine.”

____


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i know i usually update on saturday nights but ive been having a lot of internet problems lately and theres no guarantee i will be able to get a connection on my laptop tomorrow so surprise you get this a day early. i hope to have next weeks chapter out on time but its giving me some trouble writing it, im still extremely sick, and the issues with my internet connection may delay that. 
> 
> not entirely happy with how this chapter turned out but some of the topics covered are kind of rough for me to write. i'll probably come back and edit this whole fic at some point when im in a better headspace but for now this is what you get, sorry. eating disorder trigger warning on this chapter!

Bucky goes to bed and stays there. 

He’d ridden the wave of righteous vindication at Steve’s broken hip for about half an hour before the weight of their conversation really caught up to him and the color started leaching out of the world. Logically he knows his vision is as good as ever, but everything seems muted and dull, awash in darks and greys. The curtains on the bedroom windows stay drawn and the light stays off and Zeus scratches at the door for a couple hours but he can’t find the energy to get up and let him in. He murmurs that he’s fine, he just needs some time alone when Sam and Sage and Ma Wilson knock at the door and inquire after him. The shadows track across the wall in slow motion as the time passes. 

He can’t sleep. 

Every time he closes his eyes, all he fucking sees is the fake sincerity in Steve’s eyes as he insists he loves Bucky back. So he just doesn’t close his eyes. They start to burn after a while, dry and gritty and exhausted. He’s so fucking exhausted. Not just his body, the serum makes it so he can go for fucking weeks without sleep if need be. His soul is exhausted. 

He drifts for a while. 

The muddy colors start to bleed and blur together. His limbs weaken as his metabolism burns and burns even when there’s nothing in his stomach for it to feed on. 

He pushes his face into the pillow and ignores it. At least physical pain is something he can fucking control. 

At some point the never ending barrage of thoughts becomes too much and he drags himself out of the bed and slumps in the corner of the room, pouring them out into his journal in handwriting so shaky it’s probably illegible. 

_I hate that I can’t hate him. Even after everything, I can’t do it. I think I do and then I’ll catch myself missing him, wishing I could show him something or tell him something. I hate myself for still loving him. I hate myself for not knowing how to stop. Maybe he did really love me at some point. Maybe it’s my fault for not having the balls to say anything. Maybe I should call up Banner and ask him for a time machine, ask him to send me back a few weeks, to give me the chance to change what happened. But then, it wouldn’t really change it at all, would it? It would just create another timeline, another fucking mess. This Steve would still exist in this timeline and all I would be doing is leaving Sam and Sage and everyone in this timeline. Not that I really think my presence in their life matters all that much at this point- they barely know me. But it’s a coward’s way out. I have to face this reality and accept it and find a way to keep going even when I don’t know how I’m ever supposed to dig myself out of this fucking trench of depression I’ve let myself fall into. I’m not a fool and while I am a stubborn bastard, it’s not the same way Steve is. I know when I’m fucked up. I can admit that my mental health is in absolute shambles. I wouldn’t have been able to come back from the Winter Soldier if I couldn’t. I found my coping mechanisms then even when I thought for the longest time that I would never be able to get up in the morning and not want to die from the fear and the guilt. I’ll find it this time too. I have to._

Sam comes in at one point, a bowl of some sort of food in his hands. He finds Bucky still on the floor and sits cross legged in front of him, setting the food beside him. It’s a broth, with potatoes and shredded meat floating in it. “Hey, man. How’re you doing?” 

Bucky shrugs. 

“Okay. Well… it’s been two days. I know you don’t feel like it, but I’m not leaving until you eat this. I’ll feed it to you myself if I have to.” 

“I can do it,” he reaches for the bowl but his hands are shaking so bad that the liquid sloshes over the sides and Sam swoops in, taking it from him. He hangs his head, chin against his chest. “I’m sorry.” 

“Don’t be. Your blood sugar is probably too low.” Sam lifts the spoon toward his mouth. “The shaking will stop if you get something into your system.” 

“No, I know, I-” Bucky swallows the food without tasting it. “I’m sorry for being like this. I’m a burden for your family, I shouldn’t be here.” 

“You’re my _friend_. I only have a few of those left. You’re not a burden, Bucky.” 

Bucky _hates_ the way his lower lip trembles. He’s over a hundred years old and he’s lived most of that under control of the worst people on the face of the earth. He ought to have better control over his emotions, but the sad fact is, he had always been the easy crier. Steve had never let a damn person see him shed a tear, not when he was burning up with fever or spitting blood in an alley or watching his mother buried. Bucky was the type of person that cried if he saw someone else crying. His mother had always said his heart was too big for his body, too soft for the cruel world that would take bitter pleasure in seeing him beaten down for it. Little did she fucking know. In the interest of not bursting into yet another bout of ugly tears, he forces a laugh instead. “Go on; keep sweet talkin’ me, Honey. I might just take you out for a whirl on the dance floor.” 

“Stop trying your outdated pickup lines on me because I assure you, that shit doesn’t do it for me.” Sam poked the spoon at him again. “Eat your damn soup.” 

Bucky does. He finishes the entire bowl and he lets Sam help him up from the floor and back into the bed. Sam is about to leave the room when Bucky speaks up, “I can’t sleep.” 

“What?” Sam turns back toward him, silhouetted in the doorway from the hallway light. 

Bucky swallows hard. “You said it’s been two days… I haven’t slept, not for any of it. Every time I try, I just relive the whole mess. I’m really tired, Sammy.” 

“Do you want me to sit with you? Maybe it’ll help.” When Bucky nods against the pillow, he turns and closes the door, striding back across the room to put the empty bowl on the nightstand and sit down on the other side of the bed, propped against the headboard. He’s quiet for a few minutes before he starts talking. “You know, I hated you for a really long time. Like, genuinely hated you. When we were all on the run, while you were still in cryo, I saw what it did to Steve and I hated you for it because he gave up everything for you and all you did was leave and it was ripping him apart.” 

“Is this you trying to tell me I deserve every bit of what’s happening now?” Bucky scowled at Sam. “Because that’s really fucking unfair. I left because I wanted him to be _safe_ from me until I was sure I couldn’t be triggered again.” 

“No, I- that’s not what I’m trying to say. I don’t know what I’m trying to say. I think my point is that the more I get to know you and see you at your more vulnerable side like I did with Steve, the less this makes sense. I can’t reconcile the man that missed you so much he couldn’t fucking keep himself safe because he went so recklessly off the rails that every mission was near suicide with the man that left us. And now… seeing you like this. Now I can’t help but hate _him_.” Sam picked at a loose thread on the duvet, his face impassive in the dim lighting. “I think I’m trying to apologize, for ever thinking you were the one that was bad for him. Whoever it was that left us, that wasn’t the same man that I knew. I think the snap killed the Steve we loved just as much as it killed us. The only difference is there was no coming back for him.” 

“He never did know how to admit when he had lost,” Bucky mutters. “Having to face that he had probably was his final straw. Apology accepted, by the way. I’m sorry for being bitchy at you for stealing my best friend.” 

“I never did get why you hated me for that when Natasha stole him first.” 

“Are you kidding? I actually do value my life. I wasn’t about to mouth off to Natalia if I wanted to keep my dick intact.” She had enough reason to have a grudge against him anyway for the whole shooting her multiple times thing; he wasn’t willing to push his luck. 

Sam clenches his jaw and forces a laugh that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Yeah… wise move. Nat didn’t put up with anyone’s bullshit, ever. If she was here to see what’s happened….”

“Steve would wet his old man diaper.” 

“Yeah, he would.” 

Bucky had never had the opportunity to really get close to her. Even in the few times they had spent time together, united by Steve they had circled around each other like a couple of fighting cats, not trusting the other not to strike first. But the grief and pain of blinking and finding out that she had given her life in the lapse of time weighs heavy on Sam’s shoulders like a blanket. His face pinched, shoulders bent in on themselves. This conversation topic isn’t helping either of them. “So are you gonna therapize me into sleeping or not?” 

“First of all, therapize isn’t a word.” Sam reaches over and thumps the side of his head. “Second of all, I can’t magically make you fall asleep because I used to be a counselor. I stopped doing that technically almost a decade ago.” 

“’S like riding a bicycle, ain’t it?” 

“I used to sing to Steve when he couldn’t sleep? He said it was relaxing. I could try that if you want?” 

Bucky hums into the pillow, tilting the corner of his mouth up into the best approximation of a smile that he can manage right now. “Sure, serenade me. Why not?” 

Sam clears his throat, twisting his hands together. When he opens his mouth, the first notes roll off his tongue, smooth like butter. “L… is for the way you look at me…”

Bucky nods off before he even finishes the song. 

***

Blinding light pulls him from the depths of sleep as someone throws the curtains wide open. He groans and presses his face into the pillow to block it out but that is yanked out from under his head and his blankets are pulled off abruptly too. 

“Alright, I get the whole depressive spiral thing but this has gone on long enough. It’s just you and me here. Sam went grocery shopping and I’m done letting you lay around getting greasy. Get up and shower.” 

“No.” He’s slept in way worse places than a soft mattress even without pillows or covers. He can just go right back into that blissful nothingness, it’s _fine_. In fact, he’s already starting to drift off. 

“You smell like a dead animal.” The pillow slams down against his shoulder blades. “Shower. Now. I’m getting a depressive spiral just looking at you. Do you _want_ me to be depressed too?” 

He really had a thing about finding sad little shits to attach himself to, didn’t he? Rolling onto his back, he squints at the unimpressed girl standing over him. She’s probably right. He probably looks just as disgusting as he feels. Still in the same outfit he had been in when Steve had shown up. Three days ago? Four? He didn’t know how long he had been asleep. 

And he was fucking starving. 

“You literally have sweat rings under your arms. Please just trash that shirt.” Sage crosses her arms as he sits up, swinging his legs over the edge of the mattress and rubbing his hands over his face. His neatly trimmed stubble has grown out into a full beard. 

“It’ll wash,” he mumbles, standing. “How long…?”

“Sam said you fell asleep about six thirty last night. It’s noon now.” She turns on her heel, striding toward the open door. “I already put clean clothes for you in the bathroom. You can use my shower gel if you want; it’s the yellow one, the bottle says it’s supposed to smell like happiness. You need it more than me, I think.” 

He doesn’t dignify that with an answer, locking himself in the bathroom as she traipses downstairs. There’s a nightmare in the mirror staring back at him. Bloodshot eyes and dark circles like matching shiners. His hair is a matted, greasy _mess_. Sage wasn’t joking about the sweat rings. He grimaces and tugs the shirt over his head, dumping it in the hamper along with his jeans and boxers. The water in the shower warms up while he pisses, hot by the time he steps under the spray and leans his forehead against the tiled wall while the scalding water beats down on his tired back muscles. 

Back in the early days of recovery from being the Soldier, he had drifted for days like this a lot. Lost in his own head and unable to drag himself out. Even after coming out of cryo in Wakanda, he’d had bad weeks like this sometimes. He hates the way he can’t tell when they’re about to start, hates the way they sap his energy and make him entirely useless. He’s still fucking useless even now that he’s coming out of it, full of static electricity. All tired limbs and numb mind. 

Eventually he pulls himself together enough to tilt his head back, let the water wash over his face. It’s too hot but the burn is soothing in its own way. He lathers the curl defining shampoo that Sage had replaced his with through his hair, wincing when the tangles catch between the plates of his hand and tug too hard. There’s so much more to getting clean now than there ever was back in the day. When they were very young, his Ma used to shove him and Steve into a metal tub full of lukewarm water when bath day rolled around, despite their desperate protests that they would just get dirty again. She’d scrub a bar of lye through their hair until the strands actually squeaked and then scrubbed them down with the same soap. He can’t really say he misses the lye; he hated how it made his skin feel. 

Soaps are nice now. They all smell good and they don’t make his skin feel waxy. Sage’s bottle of ‘happiness’ actually smells like lemons and clary sage but it’s nice. He rubs it into the fluffy loofah and scrubs three days’ worth of sweat and depression off his skin while the conditioner soaks into his hair. 

When he gets out of the shower, he uses a rag to wipe away the condensation on the mirror and painstakingly shaves away the beard, until he’s as bare faced as he always preferred to be back when he was something people desired. He pokes at the earrings still in his ears. The holes appear to have healed around them. The clothes Sage had laid out for him are definitely some shit she had picked out without running them by him first. They’re baggy khakis, high waisted enough that he’s forced to use the gold belt to hold them up. The white t-shirt is purposely ripped around the collar and hem and it’s transparent on his still damp chest. “She’s gotta be joking,” he mutters to his reflection. 

Sage is frowning at her phone over a bowl of strawberries in the kitchen when he finally sucks it up and wanders downstairs but when she catches sight of him, her face splits into a giant grin. “You look great.” 

“He’s one chain away from E-boy.” Sam is standing in the open door of the refrigerator, looking wholly unimpressed. “Jesus, Sage.” 

“Nobody says E-boy anymore, dumbass.” She nibbles at a berry. “It’s called self-expression. Sorry your masculinity is too fragile for you to understand.” 

“My masculinity is not _fragile_ ,” Sam snaps. “It’s not self-expression if you’re the one doing all the expressing. He should be making his own questionable fashion choices if he wants to express himself.” 

“He is standing right here,” Bucky rolls his eyes, walking further into the room. “It’s fine, Sam. I don’t mind. I don’t look bad, at least.” 

“Not _anymore_. You know, now that the grime is gone and all.” 

“How are you feeling?” Sam turns and rummages through the mess of bags on the counter. He emerges with a takeout container that he holds out to Bucky. “I got this for you… it’s like, chicken and veggies over some jasmine rice. Really plain, easy to digest, but it should get you some of the calories you need since you’re deficit right now.” 

Sage shudders and pushes away her bowl. 

Bucky narrows his eyes at her but takes the container and sits across from her. He’s wary of the food but he’s hungry enough right now that he’ll take his chances with his stupid, dysfunctional stomach. It is plain but it’s fucking heavenly compared to the shit they ate during the Depression and he eats more than half the container like it’s his last meal or something before he finally feels satisfied enough to slow down to a normal pace. Sage is watching him with wide eyes. “D’you want some?” He holds the container out to her. 

“I would rather die.” 

“At least finish your fruit then,” Bucky puts down the takeout and nudges the bowl of strawberries back toward her, slowly like offering milk to a wild kitten. He’d done that often enough before. And getting Steve to eat hadn’t always been a walk in the park either. He was all _no, Bucky, you need it more than me, you have work_. “It’s good for you.” 

“You’re not my dad, you can’t tell me what to do.” She ignores him in favor of bending over her phone again, but he can see the screen and all she’s doing is scrolling through alarms. “I’m not even hungry; I ate while you were in the shower. I was just having some strawberries because Sam brought them in and they looked nice.” Her fingers tremble against the pink phone case. 

He nudges the bowl a little closer still. “Look,” he keeps his voice low, enough that Sam won’t be able to hear over the rattling of grocery bags. “I know what you’re doing, Darlin’. And I’m not gonna make you eat if you really don’t want to. I know that shit doesn’t help. But you don’t have to pretend. I know it’s hard, kiddo.” 

Her lower lip starts to tremble. “Nobody wants _me_ ,” she whispers. “Not the way I am. If I was… _better_ , maybe they would.” 

“Hey, that’s not true. What about Sam’s ma?” 

Sage rolls her eyes, shrugging. “Surely you’ve noticed she’s never around. Don’t get me wrong, I’m really grateful to her for taking me in after the dusting so I didn’t end up in some street gang, but… you know. Letting me live here isn’t the same as _wanting_ me. My own fucking parents don’t even want me.” She taps at her phone a few times; pulling up her text messages and slides it across the table to him. 

A single message, from the contact _Father_. It reads _Don’t bother coming home. Consider yourself no longer part of the Portman family._

“Family isn’t always who you share blood with, Sage. Sometimes you have to find the family you need in strangers that will become your closest friends.” He flips the phone over, so the screen isn’t glaring up at them. “And sometimes the people you thought would always be there decide to leave. You can’t stop that. The only thing you can do is pick yourself back up and move on, knowing there are people that still care about you. I care about you. Strawberry?” 

Her chest rises and lifts with a deep breath and she reaches out, taking a berry from the bowl. “I don’t think you should consider yourself the world’s leading authority on moving on, Bucky. Considering the depression spiral thing.” 

“Can we pretend that never happened?” 

“Oh, we’re internalizing our pain now? Word. I like it.” 

He smirks, picking up his container of food again. “Finish your fruit and we’ll take Zeus out for a walk.” 

“I support that idea,” Sam pipes up. Bucky really doesn’t know how much of their conversation that the other man had overheard, but Sage doesn’t seem alarmed so he doesn’t bring it up. “Fresh air, sunshine. It’s good for you, maybe it’ll lift your spirits.” 

“Well. I don’t think either of our spirits can get much worse at this point.” Sage throws a berry at Sam. “We can’t all be as well-adjusted and in tune with our mental health as you.” 

“First step is talk about your feelings.” 

“I’m a bad bitch, I don’t have any.” 

Bucky smiles down at his food as they bicker back and forth. Maybe he should take a leaf out of his own book and follow his own advice. Family _isn’t_ always who you share blood with. And it isn’t always the people you thought it was. 

But this… this could be family. They can get better together. 


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aaaaaaaat laaaaaaaast!!!!!!!!!
> 
> idk what to say about this chapter except reality can be whatever i want so if the science doesnt make sense just ignore it i never took science i know nothing about science. also i am NOT a mcu clint stan i hate mcu clint this is a mcu clint hate account but he felt necessary for the story in this example i havent decided what im gonna do with him from here but i hate him and i was literally the green nauseated emoji while writing him okay enjoy this is the longest chapter yet okay bye

“Aside from the, you know, _obvious_ concerns about the validity of time travel and timeline jumping being safe, I don’t see how we can possibly pull this off, considering it requires Pym Particles and Hank Pym hates my family.” Tony is lying on the floor of his lab, scowling at the tablet of Instructions For Time Travel like it asked for the soul of his firstborn or something. He had been ecstatic with the information the tablet contained, running off to run the diagnostics and confirm that yes, it is possible. Bruce had showed up about ten minutes later, already throwing out theories on quantum physics and shouldering Tony aside to run his own tests on the digital model. “He’s not going to just hand them over.” 

Steve still feels the weight of what he’s lost deep in his bones, like a ton of bricks resting on his shoulders. The guilt isn’t gone. Neither is the urge to throw himself off the roof. But he has this last ditch desperate hope to focus on, something to attach to and do everything in his power to see realized. “We _have_ the particles that Other Steve left. Just let me go alone.” In the tablet, there had been a note that he had left enough particles hidden in the stairwell of the tower for a single one way trip. 

“Not happening.” Natasha snaps at him. “You tried to kill yourself this morning, I’m not even letting you go to the bathroom by yourself, Steve. Either we get more particles and I go with you, or no one goes.” 

“That was this morning though,” Steve rolls his eyes at her scowl. “Fine! You two are like the world’s leading genius scientists. We have the particles. Just recreate it.” 

“It’s not that simple.” Bruce sighs, pushing his glasses up to rub his fingers over his eyelids. “Maybe it could be done, after years of study and experimenting. Even then, you see what happened to me when I tried to recreate Erskine’s serum. And considering…everything. I don’t think we have that time to waste. We only have the one vial, we can’t afford to use it for a trial destined to fail.” 

“Would Pym give the particles to _you_ then?” There will be a fucking solution to this. There has to be. 

“Steve, he basically went off the grid years ago. Nobody ever hears from this guy anymore.” 

“I know his daughter,” Tony offers, sitting upright. “Kind of. Back before Dad and Pym fell out, we’d usually end up dumped in some office with an intern while our parents were meeting. If we can’t get the particles from him, maybe I can get them from her.” 

“I can just break into his house, you know,” Natasha smirks. “It’s child’s play, Stark.” 

“No guarantee he even keeps them in his house or what kind of security he has on them. Besides, I heard Hope hates her dad now. She might give them to me just to spite him.” Tony produces a wrench from somewhere on his body and starts twirling it around his pointer finger. “I took the liberty of passing along the information on Hydra to Fury and Hill and they’re gonna work on mopping up that mess so we don’t have to deal with them at least. In the meantime, I’ll shoot an email to Hope and work on dusting off one of Dad’s old storage facilities upstate to build this quantum tunnel platform. I don’t exactly feel comfortable having time travel tech in the middle of Manhattan. I can have it ready in maybe a week and a half at the earliest.” 

It’s not soon enough, nowhere near soon enough, but it’s not like Steve knows anything about how to build a time machine. He hates the stupid helplessness he’s stuck with, adrift in this century. But even still, he wouldn’t use the tech to get back to the era he left behind. He can’t understand a damn thing about the rationale that Other Steve had given for fucking off to the past and marrying Peggy. Not when he had his Bucky there. And even here and now, without Bucky, Steve still can’t imagine going back to the way life was back then. Not when there’s so much good here. “What can I do to help?” 

“Accept that you’re under suicide watch without protest, let Natasha and Jarvis babysit you. I’ll let you know when it’s ready.” 

“I’m just supposed to sit and twiddle my thumbs?” Steve scoffs, crossing his arms. “We’ve been over this. Just give me a task to do and I’ll do it. I’m not suicidal anymore.” 

Yes, he is. 

But it’s fine, he can _handle it_. It’s not like he’s a stranger to intrusive thoughts. He can handle it. 

“Yes, you are. What the _fuck_ , Steve?” Tony points the wrench in his direction. “Look, I mean this in the nicest way, but you’re deadweight when it comes to modern tech. If you want this to get done as quickly as possible then the best thing you can do is cooperate and let us do what we know how to do. You’ve had a long few days. Just go down to one of the residential floors, take a lavender bubble bath or something calming like that and go to bed. I don’t want to see you for at least twelve hours.” 

“He’s right.” Natasha murmurs, moving to stand behind him. Her hands rub over his shoulders gently. “I know what you’re feeling-”

“No, you don’t.” She couldn’t _possibly_ understand what he’s going through. Not before and definitely not now. For a while after getting the serum, he’d finally felt like he was exactly where he was supposed to be, when he was riding high on the thrill of the first few easy Hydra takedowns. Life has a way of taking what you think of as your greatest gifts and turning them against you. 

“It’s late, Steve. C’mon, there’s nothing we can do tonight. Everything will look better after a full night’s sleep. We’ll figure out a way for you to help. If nothing else, there’s bound to be some heavy lifting. And hey, maybe Pym will listen to _you_ about the particles if you hit him with the puppy dog eyes.” 

This is a fight he can’t win and he’s too tired and kicked down already to even try, so he sighs and nods and lets Natasha drag him to the elevators. Jarvis lets them out at one of the residential floors, the doors opening right into the living room. “I don’t want to take a bubble bath, by the way.” Tony might have been trying to be helpful but that’s just about the least relaxing thing he can think of doing right now. Running until his serum enhanced lungs collapse is more on his mind. 

“That’s fine, because I wasn’t planning on letting you out of my sight anyway and I doubt you’re comfortable bathing in the same room as me.” 

He crosses his arms over his chest, sighing. Obviously he had spooked Natasha, for her to become this overbearing and protective. It reminds him a bit of how Bucky treated him, before and after the serum, it didn’t matter. “Look, I’m not going to try to kill myself again. Not when I have this hope, this priority to focus myself on. But… Natasha you can’t keep me safe from myself forever if it doesn’t work out. You haven’t even known me for two weeks. It’s not going to affect your life whether I live or die.” 

“That’s a pretty shitty perspective to have.” Natasha frowns at him, mirroring his defensive stance. “I know I have a rep as a heartless bitch but I actually do care about my friends. So forgive me for not letting you put a gun in your mouth again.” 

Steve huffs, shaking his head. “I just want to go to sleep right now. I’m _fine_ , I promise.” 

He would be fine. He would. 

***

They take the jet to the old storage facility upstate. The air is faintly dusty, but whatever crew Tony had sent in to clear and clean the space had done their job well and left them with a huge, empty space. There’s an actual small army of robots currently moving in a bunch of engineering equipment, Tony directing them. Steve scuffs the toes of his boots against the concrete flooring, his hands shoved deep in his jean pockets. He’s spent the last two days at the tower going half out of his mind. None of Tony’s assurances about their timetable not really mattering because they would be able to program the machine to deliver Steve to whatever point in time in Other Steve’s timeline that they wanted to had eased the uncomfortable current of urgency thrumming under his skin like a live wire. Now that he knows that there’s another Bucky out there, suffering and alone, he needs to get to him. _Now_.

“Can I-”

“Cap, if you ask if you can help with anything one more time, I’m kicking you out. Let me do my work in peace.” Tony sighs, running a hand over his goatee. He’s wearing a grease stained Rolling Stones t-shirt and sweatpants in spite of the warming weather and he looks like he’s running on pure caffeine and stubbornness. “The robots get upset if you try to take over their tasks.” 

Steve scowled and turned on his heel, stomping out of the facility. He didn’t go far, just to the benches right outside the open doors, flopping down on them in such a way that Bucky would have rolled his eyes at him for being ‘huffy’. He’s still in sight of everyone inside the building or else Natasha would be right on his heels. She hasn’t let him out of her sight once since the morning of the funeral, perching on the bathroom counter while he showers- she does at least cover her eyes long enough for him to pull underwear on- and curling up at the foot of his bed like a cat at nights. He folds his arms over his chest and glares at the robots unloading the trucks of equipment. Glares at the empty expanse of road. Glares at Tony’s ridiculously flashy Maserati. 

He picks at the skin of his palms, digging his nails in until the skin breaks and blood beads across the surface of the wounds. Then he drags the tips of his fingers through the blood, smearing it across his palms. Blood on his hands. As it should be. 

He’s prodding the healing skin when the compact grey car pulls up the drive and a graying, angry man steps out of the driver’s seat. “Where’s Stark?” He snaps as Steve gets to his feet, his feet falling into a defensive stance even as he shoves his bloodstained hands into his pockets. 

“Who are you?” Nobody should have been able to find them here. Tony even kept it off SHIELD’s radar. It was common knowledge that Steve and Natasha jumping to another timeline wouldn’t fly with Fury. 

“Doctor Pym! In the flesh! To what do I owe the pleasure?” Tony strolls through the open door, his arms thrown wide. “Did Hope tattle on me?” 

Steve’s harsh posture falls into something minutely more relaxed. Hank Pym. The success of this mission relies on him and his particles. 

Pym scowls, ignoring the hand that Tony offers him to shake. “My daughter informs me that you’ve somehow managed to acquire my particles and you’re demanding _more_. Well, I’m here to tell you that I’m not interested in having my tech in the hands of SHIELD or the goddamn Avengers. You’re never getting the suit or the particles.” 

“Actually, we’re trying to keep this whole thing hush hush and not let any government agencies know what we’re up to.” Tony is surprisingly unruffled by the other man’s glare and angry tone. He walks back into the facility, rummaging through a duffle bag on the card table just inside the door. 

Steve looks at Pym. “I’m Steve Rogers. Nice to meet you.” 

Pym squints. 

“I realize why you’ve kept away; God only knows what dear old dad would have done if he had gotten his hands on the Ant Man tech…” Tony returns, the tablet of info in his hands. He holds it out to Pym. “But just look at this. You’re one of the leading experts of quantum physics. We have our own reasons for needing to do this. But I think if you read through this plan, you might find you have your own uses for the tech too. If you’re on board with us. I swear we’re completely under SHIELD’s radar right now. They’re busy mopping up one hell of a mess and I don’t mean New York.” 

Steve takes his seat again as Pym glances over the files in the tablet, face impassive. Finally, he looks up. “What are your intentions with time travel?” 

Tony clasps a hand on Pym’s shoulder. “Well, the caterer is about to bring lunch. Why don’t you come inside and eat with us and we’ll fill you in on all the details?” 

***

It’s been a few months since he came out of the ice and Steve still can’t get over the wealth of food there is now or how good it tastes. He demolishes three plates of Pad Thai in the time it takes everyone else to get through their first plates. It’s delicious and so spicy that it would have given him heartburn and the worst stomach ulcer flare of his life if someone had offered it to him when he was still small and sickly. 

Tony talks a mile a minute between mouthfuls of food, laying out their entire plan and the events that have transpired since the Battle of New York for Hank Pym like it’s a given they can trust him not to turn around and spill the beans to the authorities. Steve pushes his plate away and curls in on himself, his jaw tight, when they get to Bucky’s death. He breathes deeply through his nose and _doesn’t_ cry. He’s not sure he has any tears left anyway. 

“This technology could help me bring back my wife,” Pym says at last, when Tony falls silent. 

“Not…exactly. By our calculations, we’re thinking anything like that would create an alternate universe; a timeline that branches off from our base universe at the time you alter what happens.” Tony shrugs. “We’re living in an alt timeline right now. The other versions of ourselves created this timeline when they came to take…technology that we were in possession of so they could save their universe. The main universe. What we’re doing is simply sending Steve and Natasha through to that main universe. And then bringing them back here, with Steve’s mission in tow.” 

Steve’s head snaps up at that. “I’m not coming back, Tony. Once I go through, that’s it. That’s goodbye.” Whether or not he finds and is accepted by Other Steve’s Bucky or not, it doesn’t matter. “Natasha will come back. But I won’t. I was never meant to be in this time anyway. You’ll get on just fine without me.” 

“That’s bullshit, Steve.” Nat kicks him under the table. “We’ll get Barnes and we’ll come back.” 

“No. He’s already lost enough. I’m not going to take him from what home and friends he has there. I’m not coming back, Nat.” 

“Then we’re not going! How the hell are we supposed to explain you just dropping off the face of the earth to Fury?” 

“SHIELD doesn’t own me.” 

“He has a point,” Tony sighs, running a hand through his hair. “He gets to make his own decisions, Romanoff. You know we can’t make him stay here if he really doesn’t want to be here.” He doesn’t bring up the suicide attempt but it’s hanging in the air, heavy over the lunch spread. “But this argument is pointless if Doctor Pym isn’t on board.” They all look over at the man in question. 

Pym hesitates, clasping his hands together. “I want all access to your data and you’re not getting the formula for the particles. You understand what this tech could do in the wrong hands, yes?” 

“This information stays between the five of us and the robots,” Tony assures. “Jarvis is impossible to hack.” 

“Five of us?” 

“Doctor Banner is flying in when the actual programming starts. For now he’s holding down the fort at the tower, running all of our diagnostics.” 

“Alright. I’m in then. This means too much for the future of quantum physics for me to turn it down. Don’t disappoint me, Stark.” 

“Easy.” 

***

In the end, it takes three weeks to get everything together. Doctor Pym is actually a pretty witty guy when it comes down to it and he stops squinting at them like they’re trying to burn down his life’s work every time they breathe near him. He brings in his daughter on the second week and between the four scientists they figure out the tech easily enough. Steve gets relegated to heavy lifting duty when they actually build the quantum tunnel platform, but at least it’s something for him to do. He’d spent the entire first week chopping down trees on the property with extreme prejudice, picturing the grey suited figure that killed Bucky every time he swings his axe. 

They get new suits, a collaboration between Tony and Pym, made of nano-particles- another scientific breakthrough that had been in the tablet- and they make a replica of the little quantum realm GPS that Other Steve had conveniently dropped on his way out of their timeline. It’s just a few days shy of Steve’s twenty seventh birthday when Tony steps away from his computer monitor and runs his hands through his hair and says _”It’s finished,”_

Steve and Nat had been sparring on the makeshift mats they’d set up against the back wall of the facility and he’s on the ground with Nat’s thighs locked around his throat and Hope laughing at both of them when Tony makes his announcement. He goes limp immediately, bringing one hand up to tap the outside of Nat’s thigh. She releases him and he jumps to his feet, holding out a hand to help her up. The three of them make their way over to three scientists grouped around the computer monitors. Steve really has no idea what the long paragraphs of coding mean but the others are talking rapidly in unknown terms. 

“How soon can we go?” He interrupts. It’s bad manners but it’s been so long already. Just endless hours of anxious waiting. He needs to be there. Now. 

There’s a long moment of silence, and then… “I don’t see a reason not to do it now,” Bruce says. 

Steve grips Nat’s hand hard. “You don’t have to come with me.” 

“I’m not backing out now, Rogers.” She nudges him with her elbow and smiles. “How many other people can say they’ve time traveled into alternate universes? Think of all the horror movies that they have that we won’t have here for _years_.”

“Get your damn suit on.” He’ll watch all the horror movies ever made with her if she wants if this works, but there’s no reason she needs to know that. 

He says goodbye to Pym and Bruce first; firm handshakes and genuine thank yous. Hope grins at him and punches him on the shoulder. She has a good right hook- it had taken him by surprise the first time she had joined in the sparring sessions and caught him across the jaw hard enough for his head to snap back. When he stops in front of Tony, his hand outstretched, the other man grips it hard. 

“Thank you. For everything you’ve done. I won’t forget it.” Steve squeezes hard, smiling at the shorter brunet. “You didn’t have to do this for me. I have nothing to offer in return but my thanks.” 

Tony shrugs, not quite meeting his eyes. “I did it for science. Hell, it’s better than what I could have been doing. Gave me something to focus on.” 

“ _Thank_ you, all the same.” 

Tony finally meets his gaze with a smirk. “Go get your boy, Rogers. I expect a wedding invitation. Just give me a little while and I’ll sort out some form of inter-universe communication, just you wait.” He pulls his hand free to clasp Steve on the shoulder and turns on his heel, marching back to his monitor. “Nat, you’ll be back here in five seconds for us. But it will be as long as you need for you. See you soon.” 

Steve’s breathing is short as he climbs onto the platform behind Natasha. His shield is strapped to his back and Mjolnir is in his left hand. His right hand is holding Nat’s tightly. This has to work. There’s a possibility they might end up lost in the quantum realm for all of eternity. It _has_ to work. 

Their wrist GPS’s are already programmed with the correct coordinates. Other Steve had only given the ones to get them to his timeline; they’d had to figure out the ones to get to the right date on their own. It’s guesswork for the most part but it’s the only option they had. He takes a deep breath as the mask forms over his face. 

And they shrink. 

It’s like being squeezed through a straw at first and it takes the breath from his lungs. He would have dropped Mjolnir if the strap wasn’t looped around his wrist. He doesn’t realize how tightly his eyes are clenched until Natasha kicks him and he opens them to a world he doesn’t even have words to describe. It’s colorful and moving and if it weren’t for the GPS he’d be panicking, but the device tells him the direction to go and they follow it. 

When they hit the buttons on their suits to return to normal size, Steve and Natasha materialize right in the middle of Times Square. His stomach is twisting, the nausea that Bruce and Tony had predicted they would feel definitely making its presence known. They _did it_. They had survived. They were in a different timeline now. The nano-tech suits disappear back into the pods at their belts that hold the particles, leaving them in the civilian clothes they had been wearing. At first glance the tourist packed street looks nearly the same as the one in the New York he had left, different advertisements but overall… the same. But at second glance, the one where he really looks at people’s faces, really reads what’s splashed across all the billboards, its nothing the same at all. Everyone looks haunted and confused and desperate in a way that makes his skin crawl. The screens are covered in alerts for missing person location databases. The street is overgrown by foliage and littered with too much trash. 

Something happened here, something bad. Other Steve hadn’t said much in his letter other than calling his timeline a post-apocalyptic wasteland. Steve wouldn’t necessarily go as far as to call it that yet but it’s definitely bad. He almost doesn’t want to find out how bad. 

“This is fucked up,” Natasha mutters under her breath. Her hand drifts, rests near her waistband where he knows she has at least one handgun stashed. “We need to get to the tower, meet up with the other versions of ourselves. Debrief.” 

“Yeah. Well. At least this timeline’s Tony.” Neither of them mentions the other Natasha, the one who gave her life for the salvation of this universe. Or the other Steve, run away to yet another timeline to escape his life in this one. Steve squares his shoulders and falls into step beside her, heading to 42nd Street and towards Grand Central. The tower is in sight but it doesn’t say Stark anymore and it doesn’t say Avengers either like Tony had been making noise about renaming it. 

People eye him as they pass on the street, but they don’t say anything. The shield and the hammer are a little conspicuous but maybe this timeline has had enough time to get used to Cap being back in New York for them to just let him blend into the crowd even when he’s wearing a giant target on his back. Maybe they’re just too traumatized to care. 

They reach the tower but there’s nothing familiar about the lobby. The extravagant decorations Tony preferred are all gone, replaced with modest tan couches and muted art hanging on the wall behind the front desk. A front desk that reads the name of some popular bank. The man behind the counter gapes at them. “What are you doing here?” He demands before biting his lip. “Sorry, that came out wrong. Just… Look, I’m just the receptionist.” 

“Where is Tony Stark?” Steve steps forward, his _Captain_ voice making a full appearance. This definitely isn’t the most subtle way to get information, but Steve doesn’t care about subtle right now. He cares about fast results. 

“Dude.” The guy gapes at him. “Weren’t you there?” 

“Steve.” Natasha grabs his arm and tows him away from the desk. “This isn’t the way.” She hauls him out to the street and heads to where the café used to be but isn’t anymore. “Tony must’ve sold the building.” Pulling out her phone, she scowls at it. “I don’t have service but that’s not surprising. We need to get somewhere discreet, with free wifi, and then we need to do some research.” 

“Okay. Hey, will our phones even connect to the internet here or will they try to use our timeline’s Google?” Considering they weren’t phones from this timeline and even if they were, they were over ten years old here even if they were top of the line and brand new back in their own New York. 

Natasha scowls. “I don’t know. Look, let’s just go to a library. We’ll get on one of the computers there if our phones don’t work.” 

“Too bad we didn’t bring the motorcycle,” Steve laughs and sidesteps her when she tries to stomp on his instep. “It’s gonna take forever to walk this entire way.” 

“I might have a better idea.” Nat eyes him speculatively. “Just put on your best sad captain face and follow my lead.” She marches up to a young woman that’s sitting on the nearby bench, eyes glued to her phone. “Excuse me,” 

The woman looks up, her eyes sliding straight past Natasha to lock on Steve with wide eyes. He swallows hard and blinks at her a couple of times. It’s not that hard to look sad. “Can I help you?” 

“If it wouldn’t be too much trouble, can we borrow your phone for a few minutes to make a call?” Natasha smiles, sugary sweet. “Mine seems to be malfunctioning and Steve here never really has gotten the hang of technology.” 

The woman glances between them a few times. “Uh. Sure?” She taps a few times on the screen and hands it to Natasha, the dialing pad already on the screen. “Take as long as you want, I’m not going anywhere.” 

“Great! Thank you so much. We’re just gonna step over there…” Nat waves her hand at another bench, this one unoccupied. “It’s kind of a private call but I swear we’re not gonna run off with your phone.” 

“Captain’s Honor.” Steve pipes up, because hell, Natasha has done most of the work so far. Hopefully everyone in this timeline still regards him as some paragon of truth and virtue like they do (did?) in 2012. 

“It’s no problem.” The woman waves them off. 

Steve follows Natasha to the other bench, sitting next to her as she punches in a series of numbers. “How do you even know anyone’s number to call here?” 

“I don’t. I’m hoping this is one that’s remained unchanged this whole time. Because if it doesn’t work out, we’re back to square one.” She hits the green call button and puts it on speaker. The tone sounds five times and then finally, someone picks up. 

“Who’s this?” The gruff voice is one that makes Steve’s breath catch. 

“Clint?” Natasha’s voice wavers, just a little. “It’s me. It’s Natasha. And Steve. We need help.” 

***

After they had managed to convince Clint it was really them, he had tearfully given them coordinates for a safe house in Midtown and told them to stay put and he’d be there in a few hours. He made it in two and a half. They’d barely gotten settled in front of a fuzzy news report on a dusty TV when he came barreling through the door, flinging himself at Natasha. His hands clenched in the back of her t-shirt, so tight his knuckles were bone white and he sobbed dryly into her shoulder. 

“I saw you die,” he pulls back, framing her face with his hands and staring at her. His expression wavers, glancing between the two of them. “You’re not our Steve or Natasha, are you?” 

“No.” Nat brings her hands up to cover his own. “Your Steve came to our timeline and asked for our Steve to come here. I came with him. But we have no clue what’s happened here or how to find the rest of the team. It was a gamble, calling the farm. I wasn’t sure the number would even be right anymore.” 

“Thank god it was.” Clint’s bottom lip is trembling and his eyes are watery and Steve is very glad it’s Natasha he’s crying all over and not Steve because he has no clue how he would handle that other than awkwardly pushing him away and patting him on the shoulder. He was always good at dealing with Bucky crying but Clint is just…so not Bucky. “Thank _god_.” He buries his face in Natasha’s hair again. “It should have been _me_.”

“Tell us what happened.” They’d known Nat was dead in this timeline but the way Clint is reacting, it’s maybe worse than they thought. “Barton. We need the full story. We’re relying on a couple of letters of information with almost no detail of this timeline.” 

Clint sniffs and nods and pulls himself away from Nat like he would rather rip his own teeth out with pliers than let her go, but he does it, dragging his sleeve across his face. “You might want to sit down. It’s a long, terrible story.” 

By the time Clint has finished telling it, Steve is pretty sure that was an underassessment of it. It’s worse than he could have thought possible. Even Natasha looks deeply disturbed, sitting with one hand held tight between both of Clint’s. She had stiffened, her face cold as Clint had recounted her death on a planet far away. Steve gets up to pace around the small living room multiple times, hands on the back of his head. He can’t imagine what it must have been like for those who had to live through the interim five years. Even still, he can’t condone what Other Steve had done. Losing Bucky for five years and finally, finally getting him back after so long hoping and searching for a solution, just to leave him for good? He could never do that. _Never_. Maybe it’s a good thing that their timeline had been disrupted in 2012 instead of traveling along the way this one has, because Steve hates the person that he was apparently set to become. 

“Where is Bucky?” He finally asks, after Clint has exhausted himself telling the entire story from the Battle of New York forward. 

“I- I’m not sure. Last I heard he was upstate at… Tony’s place. Pepper invited you and him and Sam to stay in the guest house after the funeral while you went to return the stones. I left before any of that happened, though. And that was eight days ago. No one’s tried to contact me until you two today. We’re you supposed to meet our version of yourself somewhere?” 

“Yeah, an abandoned parking lot with no security cameras preferably,” Steve mutters. 

Clint gapes at him. 

“Look, your Steve probably never came back from returning the stones. Because he sent me here to take his place while he fucked off and created another alternate timeline in 1945 so he could marry Peggy Carter. I’m assuming he lived out his life and died there.” Steve sighs and leans his head against the back of the couch. “I’m here for Bucky. Because my Bucky died when I tried to save him from Hydra and it turns out your Steve had planned for that all along because everything was already in place to send me here.” 

“I think I should call Pepper.” 

“That’s probably a good idea.” Steve has a headache building steadily behind his eyes and rubbing his hands across them does nothing to relieve the pressure. Clint has disappeared into the small kitchen to make his call, leaving the two of them alone with this horrible story still fresh on their minds. “God, Nat. You should go back. You should go back now. You don’t have to deal with this.” 

“I was thinking of staying, actually. Maybe.” She glances over at him, strain around her eyes. “This world… they need us. Clint needs me.” 

“There’s a Clint in 2012 that needs you too. You want him to think you just dropped off the face of the earth? Besides… the things this Clint did during those five years…” Steve lets the sentence trail off. None of them have clean hands, but Natasha and Bucky were both brainwashed when racking up their body counts. Clint did it of his own accord because he felt like it. Steve’s a little inclined to say that the truest thing he had said since seeing them was _it should have been me_. Maybe he’s just biased toward Russian assassins. 

Natasha sucks her lower lip into her mouth and shrugs. “Let’s just see how it plays out. At the very least, I’m not leaving until you and Bucky are reunited.” 

Clint comes back from the kitchen then, so Steve lets the conversation die, watching the other man with raised brows. “Well?” 

“Well,” Clint scrubs a hand through his hair and sighs. “Other you _did_ come back but apparently you’re like eighty years old or like… two hundred or something now. The point is you actually look like an old man. Are an old man. The three of you _were_ staying at the cabin but Sam left to come back here to Manhattan to stay with his mother who survived the snap while he didn’t. Bucky left at some point and Steve had no clue where he was going. Then Steve left too. Sam said that Bucky is at a safe house but he wouldn’t disclose his location to Pepper when she called him. So I’d say your best bet is to head over to Harlem tomorrow morning and talk to him about it.” 

“Why can’t we just go now?” Steve glances at the window. It’s still light out, but not by much. It’s definitely early autumn here where it had been the beginning of July when they left 2012. The change in weather had been a bit of a shock. It’s funny that he even registered it, considering everything, but there you have it. He doesn’t know who this Sam is, other than what Clint had told him. How he’d stood by Other Steve’s side through the collapse of Hydra and become one of his closest friends and helped him find Bucky after he’d broken the Winter Soldier. Surely he won’t mind an evening visit if he and Steve had supposedly been that close. 

“New York’s not the same, Cap. There’s no enforced curfew, but everyone knows the nice guys don’t go outside after dark. Especially now, with the population returned. Streets aren’t safe.” 

New York streets had never been safe. Steve has the crooked nose to prove it. “I think I can handle myself.” 

“I don’t even have Wilson’s address. Pepper is gonna track it down and text it to me. Look, just get a good night’s sleep and we can track them down bright and early tomorrow.” 

“He’s right, Steve. We can handle ourselves but we don’t know enough about this world to risk it. One night is not going to make a difference.” 

They were so close. So fucking close. It was like a knife twisting in his chest to agree but he huffed and nodded. This wasn’t the time to lose it again. This was the time to strategize and plan and _find Bucky_. And then maybe find Other Steve and give him a piece of his mind. And maybe a fist down his throat. The possibilities are endless, really. “Fine. I’m going to bed then.” The faster he slept, the quicker he would be with Bucky again. 

He still sighs when Natasha dutifully follows him to the bedroom and curls up at the foot of the bed. He’s still under watch then. 

“I’m not gonna kill myself tonight.” 

“I know,” She eyes him as he tugs off his jeans, too comfortable in her presence to be modest at this point. “Because I’m gonna be right here to make sure you don’t.” 

He doesn’t put up a fight. Maybe if he plays nice she won’t tell on him to Bucky. Maybe. 

He doubts it. 

***

Steve sleeps until noon. 

He gapes at the clock on the nightstand when he sees the time but it matches the one on his new phone. Clint had extras in the safe house and he had set them up for Steve and Natasha. He hasn’t slept this late since the last time he had pneumonia. Holy shit. He should have been in Harlem hours ago. They should have woken him. 

But Natasha is also still asleep, starfished across the foot of the bed, the blanket tangled around her waist. Huh. 

Must be a side effect of time travel. Like jet lag or something. 

He tries to get out of the bed without disturbing her but the moment the mattress moves under him, she’s sitting up, squinting at him in the bright afternoon light spilling through the windows. “Sorry,” he whispers. “Didn’t mean to wake you.” 

“I shouldn’t have been asleep that long.” She glances at the clock and then does a double take. “Is it really…”

“Yep.” He rolls out of the bed, already grabbing for his jeans and tugging them on. Showering can wait until he has an actual clean pair of clothes to change into. This place is so sparsely stocked that he’s surprised they were even lucky enough to find spare toothbrushes in the bathroom yesterday when they had swept the place on arrival. “Time to look sharp.” 

Clint is on the couch, playing some game on his phone when they emerge from the bedroom, teeth brushed and ready to go. “Jesus, I thought you two were never gonna wake up. I didn’t wanna disturb you though. I have the address and a car if you’re ready to go?” 

“Let’s do it.” Steve is a little jittery, from nerves maybe. He’s not sure exactly how well this Sam Wilson who was supposedly one of his best friends is going to take to him after what had happened with his Steve but this is his only lead on Bucky. He offers to drive but that’s met with two resounding _no’s_ so he takes the passenger seat. They aren’t sure if they’re coming back to the safe house or not so Mjolnir and the shield are strapped in the back seat. Traffic is…surprisingly not bad. They make it into Harlem in good time. 

“Hey, let’s stop for coffee first.” Clint points at a coffee shop at the end of the street. “Wilson likes coffee. We’ll get our caffeine fix and bring him a cup too and maybe it’ll warm him up to the idea. Pep said he was being kind of standoffish when she asked him about Bucky so.” 

Steve really doesn’t want to do anything but get to this guy’s house as fast as possible but he has to admit, it’s a good idea. “Fine. Do you know what kind he likes?” 

“Nah. Can’t go wrong with a macchiato though, can you?” Clint swings the car into one of the parking spaces in front of the shop. It’s a small place, not a chain like the Starbucks Steve had been getting used to seeing. And he has to admit he perks up when they walk inside and he inhales the caffeine scented air. Not that caffeine does anything for him anymore. He still likes the taste all the same. It’s a world of difference from the shitty coffee they’d had in the trenches, that’s for sure. 

There’s no line so they go straight to the counter. Clint pulls a card from his wallet and tells them to order whatever they want, it’s on him. Steve gets a large iced caramel coffee. He’d liked it when he tried it before and the weather isn’t yet cold enough here for him to not enjoy having a cold drink, especially considering he runs hot. He doesn’t really pay attention to the rest of the order, wandering over to the bulletin board to read the notices. It’s all fliers. Whether it’s survivors looking for their returned family and friends or people who were snapped away, confused and trying to connect with people who disappeared in the five years, he can’t tell. It doesn’t really matter. 

They get their coffee and head back to the car. Steve is lagging and he’s not sure why, his feet dragging against the pavement. He’s been to Harlem before, sure, but the street is so different from what he knows. Both from the 40s and from 2012. The buildings are mostly boarded up except for a beauty supply shop across the street, there’s too much trash and too many plants. Broken glass glitters on the sidewalks where the sunlight hits it. This world has been to hell and back. But the coffee shop had been peaceful. Probably thriving, considering it was the only one he had seen around and it was still open. 

“C’mon you lazy baby. We’re _walking_ because Sam said it’s _good for us to get fresh air_ and we are going to _get better_. I’m not gonna carry you so this is gonna be a lot easier for both of us if you get with the program and start stepping.” 

Steve freezes with his iced coffee halfway to his mouth. That voice. The petulant fucking Brooklyn drawl. His heart thuds _hard_ against his rib cage. He turns around slowly. So slowly. 

Bucky is crouched on the sidewalk in front of a dog, metal hand clutching its leash like a lifeline. He looks like absolute hell, eyes bloodshot with dark circles under them, long hair haphazardly thrown into a tangled ponytail. He’s got some sort of thick soled boots on, paired with black high-waisted baggy khaki pants- rolled at the ankles and held up with a gold belt, a white t-shirt so thin it’s transparent in places (untucked except for the very front), and a ragged jean jacket. Steve can just make out the handle of a knife sticking out of each boot. He has fucking _earrings_.

He must make some sort of noise because Bucky’s head jerks up suddenly, blue eyes meeting his gaze. Shock flickers on his face for only a second before it’s gone, his expression shuttered and cold. It’s not the chillingly blank gaze of the Winter Soldier though and Steve can’t help himself. His cup of coffee hits the ground, sugary liquid spilling everywhere but he’s already moving, flinging his arms around Bucky’s neck and holding on tight. His nose tucks just under Bucky’s ear, breathing in the scent of lemons and somehow it still smells like _home_ even though Bucky had always smelled like stale cigarettes and cheap cologne before. “Bucky- oh _god_ /. I’m so sorry. I’m so, so sorry.” Tears prickle in his eyes. 

A metal hand grips his upper arm hard enough to leave bruises, shoving him abruptly away. “Guilty conscience, Rogers?” Bucky _sneers_. “Let me make it clear to you right now. I want _nothing_ to do with you. I don’t care if you convinced Bruce to use his fancy quantum technology to make you young and shiny again. It doesn’t erase what you did.” 

“What-” Steve gapes at him, his hands starting to shake and something deep inside his chest curling up in a dark corner at the sheer wrath rolling off Bucky in waves. The dog is standing in front of Bucky now, ears pulled tight against its head, growling lowly. He’d read the letter that Other Steve had left him, knew what he had decided to do with time and Peggy and how he was abandoning his friends- abandoning _Bucky_ to get it. And he knows that that is what Bucky is referring to but his brain is screaming _he hates you for letting him fall_ so loudly he can barely hear how ragged his breathing is getting. Oh god, oh god, oh god. 

He barely registers his knees hitting the ground. Barely hears Nat and Clint yelling and running to his side. He’s staring up at Bucky and he’s not crying but his eyes burn all the same and he can’t look away. He can’t _breathe_.

Bucky’s expression melts into bewilderment and then concern as he glances back and forth between Steve and Natasha. Natasha who is supposed to be dead here. “Steve,” he pushes the dog’s leash into Clint’s hand to kneel on the pavement in front of him. Two hands, one metal and one flesh- _alive, alive, alive_ \- grasp Steve’s shoulders gently. “Hey, breathe with me. C’mon.” He drops his flesh hand to Steve’s own, drawing it up and placing it in his messy hair. “You’re not my Steve, are you? It’s okay. Breathe. I got you.” 

And Steve fucking crumples. He curls forward, fisting his hand gently in the still damp waves and letting his forehead slump against Bucky’s collarbone. “You’re alive,” he chokes out. He’s not gonna cry. Not now. Not when he’s got his entire world right here in his hands, _finally_.

“Yeah… yeah, Steve. ‘M alive. Always alive.” Bucky’s metal hand traces up the back of his neck and back down the slope of his shoulder. “You breathing with me?” 

Steve nods, his free hand moving to find Bucky’s pulse point. “I’m sorry.” 

“You got nothin’ to be sorry for.” Bucky doesn’t shove him away this time when Steve wraps his arms around Bucky’s neck, both hands shoved in his hair and messing up his ponytail. He’s a little stiff, but he runs his hands over Steve’s spine like he used to and that’s all Steve can care about right now. 

“Hey, who’re these guys?” Someone interrupts. A young girl by the sound of her voice but Steve doesn’t bother to drag his face away from Bucky’s neck to check. “I leave you for five minutes to go buy some nail polish and you collect two more Avengers and a clingy hunk?” 

“Sage.” Bucky pulls away from Steve abruptly, his expression unreadable as he stands, ‘helping’ Steve to his feet with a firm hand on his elbow. “This is Steve.” 

The girl, a skinny but tall thing with bright pink hair squints at him. “Wait. Steve? Bitchy Steve that we hate for being a douche? When did he get hot again and not… you know… broken hip? Can I punch him?” 

“No,” Bucky snaps at the same time that Steve says yes, because honestly he deserves it and she can’t hit hard enough to make it hurt anyway. Not the way it should. “I think we should get back to the house now. Sam is gonna…. need to know.” 

“There’s room in my car,” Clint offers, patting the dog’s head. It’s still staring at Steve but now it looks torn between biting his hand off and licking it. 

“It’s just around the corner,” Bucky shrugs and reaches for the leash. “We came out to walk so we’ll walk the rest of the way back. We can meet you there.” 

“I’m going with you.” Steve bites his lip and stays his hands from reaching out to grab Bucky again like he really wants to. “I mean. Please.” It’s weird. There are boundaries and lines here between them that they had never had before. Things that developed between Bucky and Other Steve and he has no idea how much is too much. If he’s pushing too hard and alienating Bucky even more. 

“I can’t stop you from doing anything you set your mind on so you might as well.” Bucky sighs and reaches up, pulling out the elastic band that was holding his very mussed ponytail in place. 

Natasha glares at Bucky for a minute before reaching out and squeezing Steve’s hand. “We’ll meet you there.” She hesitates and then turns to Bucky. “Don’t let him out of your sight.”

“…Why?” 

That tone used to make Steve squirm because Bucky only used it when Steve had gotten himself into some shit and he was trying to hide it. Now he bites his lower lip to hide the wobble and turns a deadly glare on the redhead. She can’t rat him out. Not _now_.

“Because. He has a tendency to put himself in danger.” She turns on her heel and follows Clint back to the car. 

Before Bucky can ask questions, Steve has one to ask first though. “How did you know? That I’m not….?”

Bucky’s face is guarded when he looks over at Steve but it’s the desperately hidden pain trying to show in his hollow eyes that makes Steve _ache_ because he can’t fix this. He _did this_. Even if it wasn’t him… it was still him. 

“You cared.” Bucky says at last, turning away just as his chin starts to tremble. “That’s something my Steve hasn’t done in a long time. Maybe he never did.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if you can spare ideas for how you think the plot should progress from here feel free to hit me with them because while i have a shit ton of stevebucky scenes prewritten for the fic here on out i never actually paused to plan the actual plot and im kind of at a loss for the next chapter thx


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the chapter delay omg i was taking some time to sort out the plot going forward and i was having some pretty bad writers block on this chapter so if it feels kind of flat im sorry i tried my best. i'd like to say there won't be any more delays but my mom is probably giving birth like...this week considering she's two weeks past her due date already so i'll be taking more time off to spend w the new baby once that happens. sorry, life. 
> 
> also i know sam's mom is literally the most one dimensional character ever written i just have so many main characters to focus on developing that i keep pushing her to the side im sorry im a lowly worm with no talent it just be like that sometimes. ALSO is it clear by now that i'm not a dog person, have never had a dog, and have no idea how to write a dog?? im sorry zeus you deserve better sorry for sidelining you half the time too. n e ways... here's the chapter pls don't hate me or whatever

To say Bucky is reeling would be an understatement. The five minute walk back to the brownstone seems like it stretches on for five hours and he can’t stop staring at Steve. Steve, who stares back at him with desperate, wild hope in his eyes and grief and guilt all over his face. He looks good, better than Bucky’s Steve had before he left. He doesn’t have the lines of stress and age etched into his face yet, doesn’t have the rigid posture. He hasn’t lost himself to being Cap yet. “What year did you come here from?” If he had to hazard a guess, he’d say this Steve hasn’t been out of the ice even a year yet. “How long have you been defrosted?” 

“2012. And just under three months.” 

Jesus. Bucky rubs his flesh hand over his face. Like he can wipe the look on Steve’s face when he shoved him back from his memory. Like he can just forget everything that his Steve did and accept this one as a replacement when all he can think about when he looks at him is how his Steve left. This one will too, eventually. Best not to get attached. Whatever he’s here for, it isn’t Bucky. No matter how much he acts like it is. “Then you don’t know my past?” 

“I know. Can we wait to talk about this until we get to where we’re going? I really don’t want to have to talk about it or relive it more than once. Or at all, really, but that’s not an option.” Steve wraps his arms tight around his ribs, hunching his shoulders and ducking his head. It’s so reminiscent of Brooklyn nights in the forties, with Steve beaten down by life and Bucky desperate to cheer him up that he almost slings an arm over his shoulders and ruffles his hair and quips some stupid joke. But this is Harlem and it’s 2023 and this isn’t his Steve. 

“It’s just up here,” Sage speaks up, having been uncharacteristically silent during the walk. Barton and the Widow are already there, parked in front of the brownstone but still in their car. They get out when Bucky and Sage and Steve approach. The Widow is still glaring at Bucky like he’s the one who did something wrong. But if she’s from 2012, he supposes she never got the chance to know him as anything other than the Soldier, who sent her car over a cliff and then shot her so maybe he deserves it. 

“Um.” Bucky reaches up and tugs the elastic from his hair. Steve had thoroughly messed up his ponytail during his panic attack anyway so it was already falling out. “I feel like I should warn you, Natalia, that Sam is probably going to hug first and ask questions later. I realize you don’t actually know him and you’re not the Black Widow any of us knew so I just want you to be aware. Please don’t shoot him. He’s still grieving.” 

“Noted.” 

“What about me?” Steve asks. 

“I really couldn’t say.” Bucky sighs. He’s growing more nauseous with each passing moment and the kicker is he can’t even tell if it’s a food thing because he ate something new this morning after giving his system nothing for three days straight or if it’s just the stress of the situation. He grits his teeth against the cramping in his gut and fists his hands at his sides. “Only one way to find out.” 

Sage ends up leading the way up the stairs and into the house, calling out for Sam as the rest of them file into the entryway. She unclips Zeus’ leash and turns him loose and he takes off toward the kitchen, presumably for the food and water dishes. 

“In the den!” Sam calls from down the hall. 

Bucky takes a deep breath. This is gonna end up being a shit show, one way or another. He strides down the hall to the doorway into the den, looking in at Sam who is curled up in one corner of the couch, scowling at his laptop. “We have company.” 

“Who-” Sam cuts himself off before he can even finish speaking, shoving his laptop aside and standing, eyes wide when he looks past Bucky. Presumably at Steve, who has been hovering just behind him, like he can’t bear to be out of arm’s reach. 

Bucky steps into the room and the others follow him, neat little ducklings falling in line behind him. His prediction was right, at least- Sam takes one look at Natalia and launches himself across the room, hugging her tightly. She stiffens but doesn’t push him away, letting him duck his face into her shoulder. Bucky grits his teeth against another wave of nausea, bracing himself against the arm of the couch with one hand, breathing shallowly through his nose. There really could not be a worse time for his _stomach issues_ to make their glorious return. 

“Are you okay?” Steve touches his shoulder lightly, then yanks his hand away, guilt washing over his face. “Sorry, I- I won’t touch you if you don’t want me to.” 

What Bucky really wants right now is for Steve to not find out about his useless fucking digestive system. He swallows hard but his mouth is dry and his tongue feels like it weighs about a ton in his mouth. “I’m fine. Just…” And yeah, he’s definitely gonna puke. “I’m going to the bathroom, be right back.” He practically bolts out of the room, back into the hallway. At least there’s a bathroom downstairs and he doesn’t have to take a flight of stairs to find a toilet to lose his breakfast into. 

He slams the door closed behind him and has just enough time to lock it before his body convulses, burning hot, and he gags, falling to his knees in front of the toilet. He clenches his eyes shut and grips the cold porcelain bowl and heaves until his stomach is empty. As soon as he stops puking, the burning feverish sensation flees, leaving him miserably freezing, shaking on the floor. His loose hair definitely got caught in the onslaught and it’s fucking disgusting, wet against his cheek but he can’t get the energy yet to move it. 

Something clicks in the lock and the knob turns, the door opening a crack. The Widow peers in at him, her features carefully schooled like the entire room doesn’t smell like puke. “Yikes,” she says mildly, stepping inside and locking the door behind her. “Steve was about to come after you but I got Wilson to intercept him. I have something of…delicate nature… to discuss with you before all the explanations start and I figured this was a prime shot to get you alone long enough to tell it.” She grabs the glass from beside the sink and turns on the tap to fill it. 

He groans, pushing himself to sit upright and flushing the toilet. When she holds the glass out to him, he takes it and swishes the first mouthful around, spitting it into the toilet before he actually drinks the rest. “Goody. Well, I’m pretty sure my brain is beyond processing anything at this point so go ahead and hit me with it.” 

“Steve tried to kill himself. That’s why I told you not to let him out of your sight.” 

He sucks in a hard breath, his gaze snapping up to hers. “ _What_?”

Natalia jumps up to sit on the counter, her feet dangling a few inches over the floor. “Look, I don’t know what Steve told you on your walk back here, but we’re from the 2012 timeline that your Avengers came to, for the Tesseract and Loki’s staff. Shit got fucked up and Loki escaped with the Tesseract, therefore altering our timeline from what was supposed to happen. Long story short, your Steve came to return the gem that was inside the staff and decided to tell us about Hydra and who the Winter Soldier really was. Steve immediately set out to look for the Soldier in that timeline and in the chaos, the Soldier ended up killed in Steve’s apartment by some other operative or alien, we aren’t quite sure. The point is, Steve watched the whole thing happen and he didn’t take it well. He blames himself greatly for your fall from the train as well as that Bucky’s death. The morning of the day of the funeral, I walked in on Steve with a gun in his mouth, about to pull the trigger.” She ignores Bucky’s sharp intake of breath. “I managed to talk him down and take the gun from him, but he’s been indifferent about his attempt and denies that he’s suicidal at all. I’m telling you this when I know he doesn’t want me to because I’m likely going back to my own timeline soon and he intends to stay here. With you. For you. Whatever. Someone needs to know and keep a watch on him. You’re the one he trusts most.” 

Shit. Shit, shit, shit, shit. Jesus fucking Christ. Bucky swallows hard, rubbing his flesh hand harshly across his face. Just the mental image of Steve hitting rock bottom and putting a gun in his mouth is almost enough to have him turning to vomit again. And maybe it’s not surprising that he’s here, in this timeline for Bucky because he’s sure his Steve would have done the same thing at some point. But time will change this Steve too. So as much as he wants to go hug the ever loving shit out of the Steve that’s currently in the other room, he can’t. He can’t get fucking attached only to lose him again. “He’ll figure out I’m not the Bucky Barnes he knew soon enough and he’ll go back with you. To the timeline he belongs in.” 

“I wouldn’t count on that, Barnes.” 

He grimaced, pushing himself to his feet. The water was freezing running down his neck when he stuck his head under the sink faucet, but it did the job to wash the puke out of his hair so he couldn’t complain. He grabbed the hand towel and ran it roughly over the dripping strands until they were dry enough to pull back into a bun at the nape of his neck. His toothbrush wasn’t in this bathroom but there was mouthwash behind the mirror and he poured some into the empty cup so he could swish it around in his mouth. “I don’t count on anything, Natalia. Not anymore.” 

“It’s just Natasha.” 

Huh. Their Nat hadn’t minded him calling her that, but this one is younger and maybe not as at peace with her past than theirs had been. “Sure. Natasha. Sorry.” He tosses the wet towel into the hamper and unlocks the door. There’s no guarantee of how long Sam can stall Steve before he comes bursting through the bathroom door like a bull in a china shop. His stomach still feels like shit but so does the rest of him and they might as well get this over with. 

Surprisingly enough, Steve is sitting on one of the couches in the den. He’s white as a sheet and his gaze latches on Bucky like he’s a life preserver in the middle of the ocean when he walks into the room and sits down across from him, next to Sam. But he doesn’t ask questions and he doesn’t try to touch him. “You can stop looking at me like I kicked your puppy, Jesus, Steve,” Bucky mutters, clenching his hands in his lap. 

“I know- I know what your Steve did.” Steve blurts out, dragging his teeth over his lower lip. “He… he gave me a letter when he came to my timeline.” He reaches into his pocket and tugs out a crumpled piece of paper, standing to cross the room and drop it in Bucky’s lap before returning to his seat. “You should read it.” 

“I’m not sure I want to.” Bucky picks up the letter, clenching his jaw tight. “He probably didn’t want me to….”

“I really don’t give a fuck what he wants, Buck. Please,” Steve’s breath shudders on every intake. No one else in the room dares to speak. “Read it.” 

Even after all this, Bucky still can’t deny Steve Rogers a goddamn thing when he’s looking at him with those baby blues. So he unfolds the paper and takes in the words written across the wrinkled paper in handwriting as familiar- more familiar honestly- as his own. 

And when he finishes, the inside of his lower lip is bitten bloody and he’s relying on every bit of his fucking Hydra training to regulate his breathing and not break into tears because he _can’t_ , not in front of Steve, he sets the letter aside and buries his face in his hands. Someone touches his shoulder lightly- probably Wilson. “Every time I think it can’t get any more fucked up… it does,” he whispers into his hands. He shudders and lifts his head to look at Steve, who is watching him with guilt all over his face, wringing his hands together in his lap. “You don’t have to do this. You don’t have to give up your timeline because my Steve ended up turning into a bitter, selfish asshole that can’t communicate. It’s not your responsibility to pick up his slack. Hell, we could probably even get you your very own Peggy Carter if you want.” The words taste like poison on his tongue but he has to say them. He braces his hands on the cushions. “I know by now that I’m not… I can’t ever be what you….”

“Don’t you dare fucking say that.” Steve shakes his head, leaning forward like he wants to fling himself across the room and back into Bucky’s arms again. “I just watched my Bucky _die_ for the second time in less than six months for me. Your Steve is a selfish bastard, it’s true. But if he doesn’t want you, I _do_. I do, Bucky.” 

“Okay, am I the only one that’s fucking confused here? Can someone explain what’s going on or do I have to guess?” 

Bucky is saved from having to respond to Steve by Sage’s drawled question as she sits down next to him, close enough that she can reach her left hand behind her back to squeeze his metal hand. The kid is fucking intuitive- she’s probably not really that confused; she was in the room when he’d fallen out with his Steve, after all. She’s just doing what she can to diffuse the tension. And it works. 

Steve’s brows furrow and he shakes himself a little, like he’s trying to get out of his own head. “Sorry, I guess I should have lead with explanations before I got to the letter. Um.” He trails off and takes a deep breath before giving an even more abbreviated version of what Natasha had told Bucky before. He doesn’t mention a damn thing about the suicide attempt. That’s fine. Bucky will just have words with him later. 

Sage lets him keep a grip on her hand through the whole thing even though the position can’t exactly be comfortable for her arm. He fills in more detail on the actual logistics of how they got to this timeline and he bites his lip so hard Bucky wouldn’t be surprised if his teeth went clean through when he gets to the part about how the Winter Soldier died. He doesn’t cry, but then again he was never the crier of the two of them. Natasha offers a few additions to Steve’s story but nobody else speaks, letting them finish their story. 

“So, do I have to give him back the shield or….” Sam scratches the side of his nose with his thumb, glancing back and forth between Bucky and Steve. Bucky shrugs. 

“What?” Steve squints at Sam. It’s weird, the way he looks at him like a stranger now instead of one of his closest friends. But at the same time, it’s like he’s an entirely different person. Not as uptight and dedicated to never breaking the Cap image that the future had pushed him into. 

“Our Steve gave me the shield; passed down the mantle. If you’re here to stay, does that mean I have to give it back to you?” 

“I have my own shield, it’s in the car. I also have Thor’s hammer? Your Steve had it with him when he came to give us the stone and the information but when he went to leave he couldn’t lift it anymore,” Steve smiles, bitter and twisted. “I guess we know why.” 

Huh. “I’m not surprised. Your letter is just the tip of the iceberg.” 

“At least he would have rescued that timeline’s Bucky before he could be made into the Winter Soldier, right? That’s something, at least.” When no one responds, Steve looks up, his face pale and gaze locked with Bucky’s. “ _Right_?”

Bucky swallows hard and shakes his head, just enough to get the point across. He can’t bring himself to say the words. If he did, he’d probably have to go vomit again. 

“I’m gonna kill him.” 

“You’re going to kill… yourself.” Barton stares at Steve with raised, disbelieving brows. 

The irony of that statement almost makes Bucky laugh. 

“It wouldn’t be the first time.” Steve decidedly doesn’t meet Bucky’s gaze as he folds his arms over his chest. He doesn’t meet Natalia’s gaze either. 

The quiet, grim words that the Widow had murmured to him during that moment in the bathroom echo through Bucky and he clenches his fists in his lap and glances over at Sam. 

Sam who is staring at Steve in shock. “What the fuck, Steve?” 

“What?” Steve rolls his eyes. “It’s true. I could have gotten off the Valkyrie before it crashed. There were parachutes. I could have turned it around and flown it right back to where it came from. I didn’t. Because I couldn’t stand living in a world without my best friend. We’ll see what this other Steve says when I make him answer to that.” Steve finally looks at Bucky, his jaw clenched. 

Bucky should have known, really. He should have guessed the Valkyrie for the suicide it apparently was but he _hadn’t_. His Steve had never said anything to hint that it was. He swallows hard, looking over at Sam. The other man is slack jawed, his eyes brimming with hurt and guilt. 

“I…assumed he told you that.” Steve is digging his nails into his palms now, his shoulders hunched again. “You didn’t know?” 

“He never said a damn thing.” Sam looks like he might start crying. “I should have known by the way he fought. So fucking reckless, like he didn’t care if he came out of it or not. I thought it was just his style.” 

“I didn’t realize it either, Sammy.” Bucky shakes his head and stands, moving to sit on the other couch, next to Steve. He reaches out and grasps both of Steve’s hands in his own, halting the way he’s digging bloody gouges into his palms with his fingernails. And it’s worse than even Sam knows, with the fresh knowledge that this Steve tried to kill himself not even a month ago, when he watched his Bucky die. Again. “Look at me, Steven.” 

Steve lifts his head, somber blue eyes meeting Bucky’s. And shit, it’s fuckin’ vertigo to be faced with this version of Steve, the one that didn’t have to throw himself away just to be able to survive in the future, so entirely alone. This Steve, who still blindly acquiesces to anything Bucky asks of him, who still looks at him for guidance rather than forcing himself to be the strong one all the time. 

Bucky swallows hard, lifting his flesh hand to grasp Steve’s chin between his thumb and forefinger, so he can’t look away. His voice is low when he speaks, low enough everyone else probably has to strain to hear what he says. “Your red head friend told on you. So don’t think I don’t know about _that_ and we will be talking about it. But let me make it clear to you right now. If you _ever_ try to sacrifice yourself over me again, Steve, I promise I will leave and you will never see me again. You can’t hinge your own well-being on me; it’s not healthy. I think maybe that mindset is what drove _him_ to do what he did. If he was so attached to my being there that losing me so many times finally broke him to the point that he couldn’t be around me because he couldn’t risk watching me die again. You want me to give you a chance? Then you agree right here and now that you’re going to go to _therapy_ and you’re going to learn healthy coping mechanisms and you’re not going to be a stubborn ass that refuses to talk about his own feelings. We’ve both lost here, but if we’re agreeing to give this- whatever it is- a shot, then we’re going to do it right this time and we’re gonna fuckin’ communicate. Got it?” 

“Anything,” Steve breathes, his gaze locked on Bucky’s. “I’ll do it.” 

“Good.” Bucky tilts his head forward, touching their foreheads together as he releases Steve’s chin in favor of cupping his jaw. “I’m not gonna promise you anything. But thank you. For giving up your world to come after me in mine.” 

***

Sam’s mother is a saint. 

She doesn’t bat an eye when she comes home from work to find a group of superheroes awkwardly making small talk in her living room, she just toes off her shoes and says hello, kissing the top of Sam, Sage, and Bucky’s heads and pulls a Chinese takeout menu from the shelf, asking for everyone’s orders. Bucky grimaces and edges toward the doorway; his stomach is barely settled down from earlier, he’s not taking any chances. Sage follows him and they make it out to the foot of the stairs before Steve catches up. Because of course he couldn’t slip away unnoticed. 

Steve’s spent the afternoon watching him shyly, silently, guiltily, but he hasn’t tried to hug or touch Bucky again since the moment in front of the coffee shop. After explaining his side of the story, he had listened silently to Sam and Bucky giving their own perspectives and taken every brutal fact about old Steve with a tic in his jaw muscle and his blue eyes darkening, stormy. Bucky had only gotten a few glimpses of his Steve wielding Thor’s lightning hammer on the battlefield from a distance and it had been breathtaking. Maybe up close flares of electricity would spark through the blue of his irises, a literal thunderstorm in his eyes. A shiver rolls down Bucky’s spine. 

No one had mentioned the love confessions. 

Steve doesn’t sit down on the steps like he and Sage are doing, but he leans slightly against the banister and reaches into his pocket, pulling out his wallet. He holds it out, new leather shining under the overhead light as he flips it open. The rain of photographs lands in Bucky’s lap. “These aren’t my memories,” he whispers. “They never will be. They belong with you. 

Bucky’s hand shakes when he picks up the one on top, his breath hitching _hard_ in his chest when he flips it over to look at the image. It’s a fucking selfie of Shuri, with Steve and Bucky in the background. Steve standing behind Bucky with his hands twisted in Bucky’s hair and a scowl on his face. It had been one of those down days in the early spring, Steve visiting him in Wakanda. Shuri had tried to teach him how to put space buns in Bucky’s hair and then spent most of the afternoon laughing at Steve’s terrible attempts. For Steve to have always had a thing for hair and braiding, he couldn’t create a bun for the life of him. They’d spent the evening on the roof of the palace, watching the stars. “This was taken on my birthday.” His voice is so faint. It was only a little over a month and a half ago in his mind. Over eighty for one Steve and it doesn’t exist at all for the other. “How did you get these?” 

“He left them with me.” Steve finally sits down on the bottom stair, cautiously like he’s afraid one of them will snap at him for doing it. He leans his head against the banister and stretches his legs out along the length of the step, crossed at the ankle. “I guess he figured he didn’t need them or… he didn’t want to remember the truth of what he left.” 

Bucky shudders, stacking the photographs without looking through them and setting them on the step behind him. He doesn’t particularly want to remember the truth of what he’s lost either, so. 

Sage touches his arm lightly. “I think you two should talk alone. I’m gonna go do smoothie prep. Do you want one?” 

“Not tonight, kiddo.” He brushes the stray hair away from her face and tucks it behind her ear. “Eat something with substance for me though, will you?” 

She rolls her eyes and stands, hopping over Steve’s legs to land on the floor. “Yes, dad.” 

Steve waits until she’s disappeared into the kitchen before turning a bewildered expression on Bucky. “He didn’t say you have a daughter.” 

If Bucky had a mouthful of any liquid he would have spat it out at that. As it is, he sputters and shakes his head. “I _don’t_ , Jesus, Steve. It’s a long story. I’ve only known her like a week, but well. You know.” 

The corners of Steve’s lips curl up just slightly, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “The mothering thing. Got it.” 

“Hush,” Bucky chides gently, nudging him with his foot. It’s true, he had a thing for taking in strays and he had babied his sister and Steve both to an excess but there’s no reason for him to be called out on it like that. Steve blinks at him, falling into hesitant silence. “God, you’re so young.” Bucky sighs, reaching out to cup his jaw in his flesh hand. Steve leans into the touch like a plant to the sun. “It’s makin’ my head spin. The difference.” 

“I really changed that much?” 

He sighs, pulling his hand away, trapping them both between his knees so he’s not tempted to touch again. Don’t get fucking attached. “I don’t know. I think the future was hard for him and he felt very alone. By the time my path crossed with his again, he was… hard. And with all my baggage… he had to be. I think he kept it up so long that he let it consume him.” 

“I’m so sorry, Bucky.” Steve suddenly chokes out, his chin quivering. He ducks his chin against his chest, looking down. “For everything. The train. For what he did, for what _I_ failed to do to save you in my timeline. You’ve done… so much for me but all I’ve ever done is fail you. I’m so sorry.” The words come out choked, like they’re being torn from him. “If you want me to leave, I’ll understand. I don’t really like to be around me either.” 

Bucky moves before Steve can even finish whispering those last words, scooting down to the step above Steve’s, reaching to tilt his chin up until the other man looks at him. Steve’s lashes have always been stupidly long, fanning around his eyes in a way that every single one of Bucky’s girlfriends had complained over in jealousy. He’s never actually seen Steve crying before but he is now. Face so pale, eyes red and swollen and brighter blue than he’s ever seen them. His angel lashes are clumping together, dark and wet, tears shimmering on the ends of them. “You listen to me,” he says lowly, “You don’t have to apologize to me for a damn thing. I _never_ blamed you for the train, I never will. You couldn’t have prevented what happened to the soldier in your timeline. And as for my Steve? Fuck him. You aren’t responsible for any of his actions.” He slides his flesh hand around to the back of Steve’s head, carding his fingers through the short tufts of hair, tugging the other man until he gets the idea and turns to fling his arms around Bucky’s waist and bury his face against his stomach. The stupidly thin t-shirt soaks through with Steve’s tears almost immediately. “You little shit,” he sniffles. “You know I can’t see someone else cry without crying too.” 

Steve laughs wetly against him, his hands clenching and unclenching at the small of Bucky’s back. “Sorry.” 

“Thought I told you to stop apologizin’,” he gasps out, scratching his fingers through the short hairs at the nape of Steve’s neck. He curls over him, hugging him tighter when the fucking image Natasha had put in his head flashes through him. God, if not for her, they wouldn’t be here at all. This Steve would be in a grave somewhere, his brains blown out. He chokes down a sob. “Steve… what you tried to do after your Bucky d-” he can’t get the word out. Not entirely sure if that’s for Steve’s benefit or his own. 

_I don’t really like to be around me either_ , Steve had said. Bucky’s scared to ask if he’s still considering it. 

“I couldn’t….” Steve’s shaking now, all over. His trembling fingers tug Bucky’s shirt out of his belt so he can get his hands under it, like touching flesh will assure him that Bucky’s really here with him. “I didn’t see a way out. I was so alone. Please don’t make me leave. Please, I can’t- I don’t want to be alone anymore. You’re the only person who knows _me_ , please, I don’t want to become like _him_.”

“Steve- Stevie,” Bucky tugs Steve’s face away from his stomach to pull him up and press their foreheads together. Steve’s hands fly up, one on his cheek, one in his hair. “I would never send you away, not _ever_. Fuck, kid, don’t you know that by now? You’re stuck with me like glue. My life has always been better for having you in it. I was having a goddamn crisis trying to figure out how to live without you. We’ll make it work.” They don’t belong to each other, two jigsaw pieces from two different puzzles. Both hurt more than they ever thought they would be, but maybe that’s the first place they can learn to meet in the middle. They’ll make it work. He nudges his nose against Steve’s and they’re both kind of snotty and gross but neither one of them really cares at this point. “I meant it when I said I’m with you to the end of the line. Honest to god, I did. No matter how twisted it gets, you’ll always have to be the one to break it first because I won’t.” _I’m too goddamn stuck on you_ , he almost says, but quiets the words on the tip of his tongue just in time. 

There’s no guarantee this Steve feels the same. He’s been burned too much by his own Steve to trust anything he says, especially not this. Time will tell if he can reveal how he feels. But for now… this is a start.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi guys, sorry for the delay! my baby brother was actually born the day after i updated last time so i've been pretty otherwise occupied this week, as you can imagine. i had some trouble with the beginning of this chapter with writers block but once i got past it, i word vomited the whole thing except the first scene into my doc in like four hours so that's fun, i guess. 
> 
> i do have some things to say before i actually get into the chapter. in my last update, i had a number of unpleasant reviews, not just in the comments but also sent to my curiouscat through twitter about sage and other things. some were valid critiques, other's were just hateful messages telling me my writing is 'repetitive' and 'not good'. i see your point about sage not having much of a Purpose to the plot, but you have to understand i'm writing this chapter by chapter, with only a vague idea of the plot. i'm as surprised by each chapter as you guys are. the way that works means that when i get an idea i run with it and see if it pans out. sometimes it does, sometimes it doesn't, but we're too far in now for me to change anything now. sage was never intended to have some great Purpose. her place in this story was originally just to give bucky something to focus on other than being depressed 24/7 and because i fucking love mother hen bucky (whether that be with his sisters, in an au, with a random stray cat he finds on the street, with sage) it's one of my favorite bucky tropes and it's in 90% of my drafts. i know you guys are always going to have your opinions and thats valid because youre SUPPOSED to have opinions, but there is a time and place to express them. i've worked in the writing industry professionally and i know how to take the heat from editors. i have a thick skin. but pointless criticism just for the sake of saying it without offering anything helpful really isn't it. so feel free to share those opinions with your friends, your followers on twitter, whatever. but for the love of god, do it where i can't see it because it does affect my mental health. and remember i am putting this out for FREE. hours of my time and stress and tears and sweat go into this. i've had countless breakdowns, have put myself in SHITTY head spaces for some of these scenes. but i do it because i enjoy the result and i love to see you enjoy it too. just remember there's a real person on the other side of the screen, i'm not a perfect, emotionless computer producing sterile, generated chapters. thank you.
> 
> enjoy the chapter!!! (it kind of developed a mind of its own; i didn't intend for THAT to happen yet but i think it works out better than what i had planned anyway.)

“I want to see him.” 

“No.” 

Steve matches Bucky’s glower, lifting his chin. “I have things to say. I want to see him.” As happy as he is to be here, to have Bucky- to have this chance at _something_ with Bucky, he can’t just let slide what Other Steve had done with his life. He can’t just say ‘oh, I’m here now, everything is better’ because it isn’t. He can see the caution in Bucky’s eyes and the stiff, defensive set of his shoulders every time he looks at Steve. He has to fix that, has to prove himself worthy of trust again before they can even hope to move forward. 

He’s pretty confident that the best way to go about that is to rip this timeline’s Steve limb from fucking limb. 

“Yeah, I know you. You can’t start a fight with an old man in the hospital with a broken hip. You’d cave his face in on the first punch.” Bucky rubs at his sleep heavy eyes with one hand and raises his mug of coffee with the other, blinking blearily at Steve over the rim. Everyone is gathered in the kitchen, attempting to do their part at pitching in to make breakfast with varying levels of success based on how asleep they still are. 

Steve is doing pretty well at the stove, to be honest. He’s a morning person so he’s been wide awake, making stacks of pancakes. The girl- Sage- had been up almost as early as him to take the dog for a walk but she had stopped by the kitchen before leaving, while he was still mixing the batter and asked if he knew how to do pancake art. When he was confused, she had pulled up the YouTube videos. His first few attempts had been disastrous. He’s getting the hang of it now, though. 

“I say let him,” Sam Wilson- apparently one of his best friends and now also Captain America- is shredding potatoes for hashed browns. He’d adamantly told his mother to go sit down and put her feet up when he’d wandered in about fifteen minutes ago and found her washing the potatoes and telling Steve about her volunteering job at the Harlem Emergency Reconnection Center. Not a lot of families have had much luck finding each other yet, but it’s still barely two weeks since everyone had reappeared. “Kinda want to video it.” 

Steve starts drizzling pancake batter on the griddle in the shape of Sam’s face, with the Captain America cowl. “I’ll be… gentle. I just want to talk.” _If_ he happens to lose his temper at some point along the way, well… it’s not like the fella doesn’t deserve it and then some. In fact, he should be expecting it. 

Bucky sighs and presses his fingers to the bridge of his nose. He drains his coffee in one long pull. “Look, I’ll take you to him, but I’m not seeing or talking to him. I’ll stay in the car or in the waiting room or… something. I really can’t be around him.” 

“I would never ask you to be.” Steve flips his pancake and offers a tentative smile in Bucky’s direction. The night had been…awkward. There were four bedrooms and a pull out couch in the den. Steve had refused to leave Bucky and Natasha had refused to leave Steve. Barton had reluctantly returned to the safe house. Much as Steve hadn’t wanted to be further than arm’s length away from Bucky ever again, he had bitten his tongue against the protests when Bucky had set him and Nat up on the pull out. As soon as everyone else was upstairs, Steve had demanded to know why Natasha had told on him about his suicide attempt. She refused to apologize. 

Steve ended up sleeping on the floor. Mattresses were too soft anyway. 

He takes the pancake off of the griddle, sliding it on a plate and turning around to hand it to Sam. The other man takes one look at it and bursts into laughter. “We’re gonna have to figure out this multiple Cap thing if you’re staying, man.” 

“I’m okay with giving the persona up completely if you actually want to take it on.” Steve shrugs, pouring more batter on the pan. There’s a stack of pancakes already but there’s a lot of people to feed and two of them have super metabolisms. Captain America served his purpose when he needed it to, but this is a future and an alternate reality and he really, really doesn’t want to be absorbed by the character the way this timeline’s Steve had been. “I don’t necessarily know if I could just sit out the fights if I’m needed, but I’d like to be able to fight as Steve Rogers again, not the Captain.” His shield could be repainted, he could learn to fight with it and the hammer at the same time, could dress in something like the tac gear he had worn to Camp Lehigh. 

“Uh, no.” Bucky pats him on the shoulder as he moves towards the coffee pot to refill his mug. “You’re going to therapy. That means no field work until you’re cleared at the very least.” 

“I can multitask.” 

“No. You just got out of fucking World War Two like three months ago. You’re done, Steven. And for that matter, I’m done too. As of right now, we’re retired.” 

There’s a part of Steve, the part that has always fought tooth and nail to do what he believes is right that wants to protest and rail against Bucky’s declaration because he can’t just sit it out when he could help. But this thing- this chance- is too fragile and precious to do anything that might upset it, so he bites the inside of his lip, swallows his words. “Okay. We don’t go _looking_ but if the fight finds us…?”

“Fine.” 

Steve scoops the last pancake off the griddle and turns off the stovetop, turning to clap Sam on the shoulder. “Well. Congratulations, Captain America. Now tell me- how are you with calculating the angles of your throws?” 

***

Steve, Bucky, Sam, and Nat walk to Harlem General Hospital. They’d brought one of the shields to let Sam practice bouncing it off obstacles along the way. Steve has Mjolnir hanging from his wrist, too uneasy to leave the house unarmed. And he kind of wants to see what Other Steve has to say for himself being judged unworthy after his actions. Sam takes the lead as they walk up to the reception desk, his chin lifted and shoulders back. He pulls out a shiny looking Avengers ID card and flashes it at the woman and requests four visitor passes and Other Steve’s room number. The woman gives them all to him with a star struck smile, not even seeming to notice the weapons they’re all packing. 

Bucky is tense, his walk stiff as they move towards the elevators. Steve slows his pace and drops back to walk beside him, just enough distance between them that their shoulders don’t brush but if they were any closer, they would. “You okay?” The question is stupid and he knows it before he’s even finished saying it. “Sorry, that was dumb of me to ask. You don’t have to do this. You can stay down here.” 

“No. It’s fine.” Bucky shoots a wry, crooked smile at him. It doesn’t reach his eyes. “Someone’s gotta be there that can pull you off of him before you get too many hits in and bring all the lovely nurses down on our heads.” 

Steve bites down on his lower lip and scuffs the toe of his shoe against the shiny floor. It’s a valid point, but he’s not apologizing for it. “You didn’t have any pancakes at breakfast. You didn’t have anything at breakfast, really. Except coffee. I just know how many calories I need to keep going. I’m worried about you.” 

“Aw, hell, Steve.” Bucky huffs, and it ruffles the ringlet that’s fallen out of his bun and now rests over the center of his forehead. “Just not keen on eatin’ early in the mornings. I’ll grab some lunch later. It’s my job to do the worryin’ around here.” 

That one curl had taunted Steve most of his life. Much to Bucky’s annoyance he had always had that one incorrigible strand of hair that fell across his forehead no matter how long or short it was, no matter how he styled it. Bucky had hated it and Steve had hated how badly he wanted to reach up and brush it back where it was supposed to be. He had never allowed himself the luxury of it. It was dumb, because he had his hands in Bucky’s hair all the time, but that had always been… different. Less intimate. But hell if he didn’t wanna be anything like what he had turned out to be in this timeline. So instead of clenching his hand at his side, he lets out a shallow breath and lifts it. The curl is just as soft and clingy as he had always imagined, as he had spent his teenage years lovingly detailing in charcoal in a sketchbook that had never seen anyone’s eyes except his own. It wraps around his forefinger in a whisper of a hug as he pushes it back gently. 

Bucky’s breath catches in his throat, almost inaudible, even as his lips part softly and his brows furrow and thoughtful blue eyes trace over Steve’s face like he’s seeing him for the first time. He sways forward, just slightly, when Steve’s fingertips graze his cheekbone as he drops his hand. 

“Bucky, I-”

The elevator dings loudly as the doors slide open and they jump, stepping away from each other and looking at the other half of their group. Natasha is smirking at them but Wilson is just staring at Bucky with furrowed- _worried_ \- brows. 

Steve clears his throat and steps into the elevator, everyone else following him. “Ninth floor, right?” 

Bucky doesn’t look at him again until they’re in the hallway right outside the room. He clenches his eyes shut and grabs Steve’s elbow before he can puff his chest up and shove the door open and let all hell break loose. There’s sweat beading at Bucky’s temple when Steve turns to him, strain around his eyes and mouth and his skin paler than it had been any Brooklyn winter. “Buck?” 

“I can’t- I can’t go in there.” Bucky swallows hard and shakes his head. “I’ll wait right outside the door. Just… don’t kill him, okay?” He forces a laugh. “Last thing anyone wants is to see you in prison for murder of your older self. I wasn’t joking about those nurses, they’ll catch you the moment they see him flatline.” 

“Don’t worry. If I was going to do that, I’d be smart enough to put his heart monitor on my own finger beforehand.” 

“Attaboy,” Bucky drags his teeth over his lower lip. “Don’t take it too easy on him though.” 

“Come on, when have I ever taken it easy on anyone, ever?” Steve smirks and turns on his heel, grabbing the door handle. This was gonna be fun. 

Sam and Natasha follow him into the dimly lit hospital room and she closes the door firmly behind them. She has that shark-like expression, one eyebrow raised and lips twisted to the side in a terrifying smile. Steve’s a little worried that he’s starting to develop one of those of his own. 

“Jenny? Is that you already, honey? Medications aren’t for another forty five minutes are they?” 

Steve stops in his tracks at the shaking, frail voice. It’s still recognizable as his, but the difference is unsettling. He closes his eyes and breathes in slowly through his nose. Natasha touches his arm and he nods at her before stepping fully into the room, into the old man’s view. 

They stare at each other for a long, long moment. 

“You’re late,” Old Steve finally says, pushing a button on the bedrail that raises him slowly to an upright position, his face pinching up in pain. “You were supposed to get here nine days ago.” 

“And you were supposed to be with him to the end of the line.” Steve sets the hammer on a table and crosses his arms over his chest, clenching his jaw hard enough that his teeth creak. He swallows hard and huffs out a breath, shaking his head. “Because you messed with my timeline, my Bucky _died_ by the hand of a- a _thing_ that reached right into his chest and crushed his heart. He was barely starting to break programming. But I guess that was all in you _grand, savior plan_ , wasn’t it?” 

“Steve, I… I am so sorry. Of course, I never wanted or meant for that to happen.” 

“Then what the hell _did_ you want and mean to happen?” Steve shouts, stomping toward the bed. He’s practically vibrating with how hard he’s holding back from throwing punches first and talking later. His eyes burn, his nose burns, his chest is tight, reminiscent of asthma. He’s known rage his whole life- there were times when it was the only thing that kept him going. But it’s never been more all-consuming than it is in this moment. “Please, don’t be shy. Tell me what your glorious plan was! What? Was I supposed to successfully rescue and rehabilitate my Bucky and then bring him here with me because you fucking knew I wouldn’t be able to leave your Bucky here alone to suffer too? Did you want me to drop in and take your Bucky away to my timeline, a timeline that still has active Hydra, to tear him away from his friends and family here to go back to 2012 with me? To a timeline that he was apparently just supposed to live alongside the actual fucking Winter Soldier, reminded of everything he’s worked so hard to overcome? Is that what you _wanted_?”

“I just wanted to make a happy ending for everyone,” Old Steve, whispers, looking down at his hands in his lap. 

Steve chokes on the laugh that bubbles up in his chest. “A _happy ending_ , huh? Well, let me tell you. It didn’t work. I’m not happy, Bucky’s not happy, nobody is fucking _happy_ , except for you, apparently. But you’re about to not be very happy, either, pal.” He reaches out and fists his hand tight in the other man’s white hair, jerking his head back so he’s forced to meet Steve’s gaze with wide eyes. He leans down until they’re almost nose to nose and he’s breathing in the chalky medicine on every exhale Other Steve makes. “You _left him_. You left him here and then you left him with Hydra while you were living your fucking fantasy life with Peggy. You never told her, did you? She always assumed you were just changed from the plane, from losing Bucky. You never told her a damn thing, I know you didn’t.” 

“You are a _child_ ,” Old Steve spits, and oh, _now_ there’s venom, anger in his tone. “And you know nothing about my life. You know nothing about what I had to live through. And you know nothing about what I did or did not tell my wife.” 

Even though he’d known that Other Steve had married Peggy, it still hits a little hard, in the tiny part of him that had fancied himself in love with her, ready to marry her when the war ended if she would have him and live next door to Bucky until they died. But those were stupid, half formed daydreams and he’d let go of them already. “No. I know you didn’t tell her. You forget, I came out of the ice just a short time ago. I still remember _exactly_ what she’s like. I know you didn’t tell her, because if you had, she would have personally beat you to a bloody pulp, put that damned quantum suit on you, and sent you back here with your tail between your legs herself.” He tilts his head to the side and smiles. “Go on, tell me I’m wrong.” 

Old Steve doesn’t answer. 

“Thought so.” Steve releases him, shoving him back against the pillows none too gently. “So here’s what’s going to happen. I’m here to fix your mess because you gave up. Your actions cost me the most important person in my world. He’s gone for good. Had you not meddled, maybe I would have stood a chance at saving him the same way you saved your Bucky. Unlike you, I’m not willing to meddle with the time-space-continuum to try and go back to prevent what happened, because I’ve already learned that won’t fix what happens in my timeline. It just creates _another_ timeline with _another_ Steve and Bucky. So I’m here, and I’m here for good. And I hope to _god_ that someday, Bucky will be able to trust me when I say that even though you smashed his trust in us to smithereens.” 

“He’ll always trust us.” 

“Yeah, well, that was before you turned into this gargoyle. You took him for granted.” Steve sighs and steps away from the bed, his arms limp at his side. He backs up until he’s standing next to Sam by the wall. “You don’t get to have everything. It’s always been about picking and choosing what you wanted the absolute most. But you forgot that.” 

Other Steve jumps when Natasha jumps up on the footboard of his bed, balancing nimbly on the tips of her toes. “When did the serum start failing?” She tilts her head to the side, her tone light, conversational, but her face hard as marble. 

“I-in the sixties.” He stares at her, face infinitely sad. “Hey, Nat.” 

“Hm. So you’re as mortal as any other man now.” She smiles and draws a knife out of her boot, twirling it casually between her fingers. “You can die as easily as any other too. I’m only going to say this once; I don’t appreciate people lying to and manipulating my friends. But you know that, don’t you?” 

“Nat-”

“Don’t call me that.” She uses the knife to flip back the thin blankets, exposing pale, wrinkled feet. The tip of the knife digs into the big toe of the left foot until blood bubbles to the surface. “You left us with minimum intel for retrieving and rehabilitating the Winter Soldier when you probably could have gotten a list of holding places from your James easily. Surely you knew about Camp Lehigh, you could have told us about _that_ nasty surprise but instead you gave us detailed instructions on how to get to this timeline. It’s funny, isn’t it?” She drags the knife down to the joint and pulls away, sheathing it and jumping to the floor. 

Steve shudders, his breath going shallow. He hadn’t even noticed what she had pointed out until now, but he knows enough to know that it was no accident that it had played out the way it had. This Steve had maybe cared about his Bucky at some point, in some twisted way, but he sure hadn’t cared about any other Bucky. 

“Sam,” Old Steve pleads, looking over at him. “Are you really just going to stand there and let them-”

“Yep. I got nothin’ to say to you, Steve. What you’ve done… it’s not forgivable. The only reason I’m not out in the hall with Bucky right now is because, to be honest, I kind of wanted to see you get your ass handed to you by your younger self.” 

“Bucky’s here?” Old Steve perks up, looking at the tiny hallway. 

“He doesn’t want to see you.” Steve snaps. He wants to rage and shout some more, to make this other Steve _do something_ to make up for what he’s done but now that he’s here, now that he has this huge ball of rage in his chest, it seems kind of useless. He can punch the bastard’s face in, can force him to apologize, but it won’t change what’s happened. It won’t change that this was going to be his future. He doesn’t even know what else to say; he’s still _angry_ but his arms are heavy at his sides and his shoulders are slumped and mostly he just wants to leave because this Steve is pathetic and twisted and just… not worth it. He still has a life to live. A life this Steve could have had, but now never will. And it’s going to be better than anything. “I feel sorry for you, I really do.” 

He turns on his heel to leave the room, but the door opens and Bucky slips inside, his gaze darting up to lock with Steve’s. 

“I’m in love with you,” the words are out of his mouth before he even thinks them through, before he has time to panic over them. 

Bucky pauses long enough to smile at him and say, “I know,” before he’s taking a deep breath and marching past, right up to the foot of Old Steve’s bed, his arms wrapped tightly around his waist. “I got somethin’ to say to you.” 

“Anything,” Old Steve leans forward and reaches his hand toward Bucky. 

Bucky just squints at him. “All I ever fucking wanted… for my entire life… was for you to love me. Even just for one day. I promised myself that I would be grateful for anything I got and that I wouldn’t try to make you stay if it wasn’t somewhere you wanted to be. That’s why I didn’t fight you when you said you were leaving. But I just wanted one fucking day. To see what it would be like. I realize now that things like that don’t happen to people like me. Some of us are just destined to lose and I’ve accepted that. Maybe you did love me once; but by the time you left, you hadn’t cared about me or known anything about me in a long time. I have enhanced hearing too, you know. I heard the whole conversation. You’ve more than shown you really didn’t care about any version of me by the time you left. You manipulated this Steve so he was set up to lose his Bucky from the very beginning. You didn’t give a _shit_ about the Bucky being tortured in your timeline. In fact, you really didn’t give a shit about anyone other than yourself. But hey, I guess I should thank you for giving me this opportunity. Maybe I get that day I wanted so bad, maybe I’ll get more. Who knows? Congratulate yourself! Your great plan worked, no matter how many lives it wrecked. But you won’t be seeing me again. Enjoy what’s left of your life, Steven.” He breathes out slow and turns away from the bed. “Let’s get out of here, Stevie,” he drapes his arm over Steve’s shoulders. “I fucking hate hospitals.” 

***

They make it to the sidewalk outside the hospital before Steve can’t hold his tongue any longer. “Um. So- are we….?”

Bucky is distracted, stiff, staring at something in the distance with narrowed eyes. “I don’t know. We’ll talk about it. Later. Hey, where did you put that hammer?” 

“ _Shit_!” He’d left it in the hospital room. “I meant to grill him about that too.” 

“Steve. Seriously, where’s the hammer?” Bucky points down the road. At the armored vehicles approaching. Sam curses and grips the shield tighter and Nat grabs the handgun from the back of her waistband. 

Steve sticks his hand out and waits. _Come to me_. Glass shatters in the distance and there’s a few screams. The hammer slams into his hand just as the vans come to a screeching halt at the curb and armed operatives come spilling out. 

“Really, Barnes? Knives?” Natasha blows a strand of hair away from her face. 

Bucky has two long, razor sharp knives, one in each hand. Steve has no idea where he got them from. He shrugs. “It’s what I have on me.” 

“Knives are cool.” 

The operatives have noticed them by now, glancing between the four of them and what Steve assumes to be their commanding officer in confusion. “Hey,” Steve calls, “Who the hell are you guys and what do you want?” 

The commander draws his weapon with a dark smile. “You.” 

It’s chaos, as battles are. Bucky shoves Steve in the side for him to miss the bullet that ruffles his hair and flings the knife in his left hand straight into the eyeball of the agent that fired it. He produces another, identical knife out of his sleeve. “I hope you know how to use that thing, Steve,” he shouts over the noise. 

Steve grins at him and launches into a sideways flip to avoid the next spray of bullets. He flings the hammer out, taking out the front line of operatives. There’s people screaming and running. It’s World War Two and New York all over again but this time he has Bucky. He dives behind a tree and calls the hammer back to him so it bursts through the trunk. One kick sends it down on top of one of the three vehicles. 

Natasha is holding her own and Bucky is- well. He’s _not running out of knives_ even though he’s not bothering to retrieve them after he flings them into various body parts of the villains. Sam though, is fighting three guys at once and he’s grounded. And unarmed other than the shield. And he hasn’t mastered fighting with it yet. Steve runs at them, taking one of the guys out with a swing of the hammer to the vertebrae at the back of his neck. The other one goes down with a jolt of electricity straight to the heart. 

“I had them-”

“On the ropes, I know.” Steve tosses the hammer toward the engine of another vehicle. “May I?” 

Sam hands him the shield. 

The sniper in the tree above them falls with one solid hit. He passes the shield back to Sam. “Great work, Cap. You’re off balance, you have to account for the momentum in a fight and put more of your weight on the other side to counter it.” He holds out his hand to call the hammer back to him. 

Bucky yelps. 

But when Steve whirls, horrified, he’s not on the ground with a hole in whatever body part might have been hit. He’s standing solid and angry, knife in his left hand, Mjolnir in his right. Worthy. 

“Steve, you bastard, you almost brained me with this!” Bucky shouts at him twisting on his heel to slam the hammer into the skull of the guy trying to sneak up on him. “Watch where you fucking summon.” He tosses the hammer at Steve and looks around. 

They were more than outnumbered and under-armed, but every operative is down. A relatively short fight and barely a scratch on any of them. Nat saunters up, dusting her hands on the back of her pants. “Well, you boys seemed to have everything under control so I took the opportunity to find out some more information. They’re AIM, here because Old Steve up there popped up in the system. They wanted to get the serum. Guess they were surprised to see you all young and chipper,” she nudges Steve with her elbow and then turns to Sam. “You’re the Captain. Where do we go from here?” 

Sam sighs and rubs the bridge of his nose. “Guess my vacation is over.” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a phone, tapping the screen a few times and pacing away. “Hey, Sharon? Yeah, hi, it’s Sam Wilson. I got something.” 

Steve turns away, really not caring about eavesdropping on the conversation. “You caught Mjolnir,” he lifts the hammer, holding it between him and Bucky. “Do you know what that means?” 

“Metal attracts lightning?” Bucky jokes, wiggling his metal fingers so they glint in the sunlight. 

“It means you’re worthy.” Good. Everything Steve had always known he was. 

Bucky takes the hammer from him, tossing it from left to right and back again a few times. “I know what it means, Steve,” he sighs and hands it back. “Think I’ll stick to my knives though. I’m not that crazy about raw electricity, as you might imagine.” 

Jesus. He hadn’t even thought of that, but yeah. It makes sense. Steve winces, but doesn’t press. “Yeah, about the knives. You must have gone through at least twenty or thirty. Where did you even have those stored?” He gestures to Bucky’s outfit, skin tight ripped jeans and pink hoodie that’s now sprayed with blood. 

Bucky licks his lips and grins, huffing through his nose as he holds up his left arm, pushing his sleeve up slightly and twisting the metal plating on the tip of his metal finger. A hatch opens up in his wrist and the handle of a knife pops out. “Go ahead.” 

Steve takes it. It’s long and wicked sharp, serrated and curved. “You just… make these?” 

“Sort of. It’s nano tech. It was my idea but Shuri is the one who really made it work. The arm is connected to my brain so it wasn’t much of a stretch to make it communicate so I could do this too.” Bucky puts the knife back in the arm and closes the panel with a snap. He surveys the bodies, expression resigned. “You really had to go and jinx us with that thing about the fight finding us, didn’t you?” 

“Hey!” 

“Look, Steve. I know I said later, but I need to say this now. As we’ve just seen, anything can happen at any time.” He pushes the hair that had come loose in the fight away from his face, his eyes locking on Steve’s. “I love you, I do. I always have. But right now, it’s hard to just keep my head above water, let alone swim. So I need time. I want this, god; I’ve never wanted anything more. I want to be able to get to know this version of you and for you to get to know me. I want to build that trust back up. I have to. Before anything else can happen.” He sighs and drops his chin, breaking eye contact. “It’s not gonna be easy, Steve. It was getting to know me that caused my Steve to leave. I’m probably gonna be pissy and I’ll definitely have bad days, ‘cause I’m sure as shit not over Hydra even though I can’t be made the Soldier again. And this thing with being snapped out of existence for five years and then getting… left right after I come back won’t help and-”

“Bucky,” Steve presses his pointer and middle fingers against the other man’s lips to stop his self-deprecating tangent because his breathing is just getting more uneven the longer he talks. “You’re allowed to struggle. I’ll be there. As long as you’re willing to be there with me for mine. My head isn’t in the best place either. I promise, you’ve got me. For as many days as you want. Always.” 

He drops the hammer when Bucky flings his arms around him, burying his face in Steve’s neck. Tears prick his eyes but he forces them away and presses his cheek to the top of Bucky’s head, soft curls tickling him. Just hugging in the middle of carnage. It’s not the first time, but it means more this time than any other. This time, it means everything. 

“I can’t stand Harlem.” Bucky mumbles against his neck, pulling back just far enough for their eyes to meet. “Hey, how do you feel about that road trip we never got to have? I still haven’t seen the Grand Canyon.” 

“Neither have I.” 

“So?” 

“Yeah,” he smiles. “Yeah, let’s go.”


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry about the delay in updating, life you know :/ my twitter also got suspended and that ruined my whole mood so i didn't feel like writing for a little while but at laaaaaaast this is here even though i kind of hate it im just so sick of writing it
> 
> as far as the restaurant featured here and the h i l a r i o u s name of its owner, they're both real and according to the yelp reviews i looked up, interactions such as described here are a common occurrence but then again i've never been to new york so... take everything with a grain of salt and recognize i took creative liberties. 
> 
> follow my new twitter @/buckycried if u want bc i lost all my followers and my ego is laying in the dirt right now. and if you want to wish me a happy birthday, i turn twenty one on monday hehehe

To be fair, the road trip had kind of been a spur of the moment idea but the more Bucky considers it, the more excited he gets. It makes sense, to get away for a little while. The time with Sam and his family had been great and he had needed them but Sam has to go to work now and Bucky is fucking _retired_ , dammit. The fight outside the hospital might have been ridiculously easy but it reminded him exactly why he hates war. Hates blood and death and fighting. He doesn’t want that to be his life ever again. He really hopes Steve will reach a point where he doesn’t want that life either, even though he hasn’t yet lived through the years of service that this timeline’s Steve had before he finally decided to retire. 

So they’re at a used car lot and Bucky has a Wakandan debit card in his hand that Shuri had made a point to hand to him before leaving the funeral. Steve is peering at Jeeps and trucks, but Bucky heads straight for the hideous old Volkswagon bus, orange paint faded and rusty. He peers under the hood and into the interior. It’s in pretty good condition, has all the seats but they won’t be needing those. Not with Bucky’s plans. He’d lived through the seventies, okay? They were going to rip out everything but the front two seats and make it perfect for a long, cathartic road trip. Just like in the shitty movies. 

Maybe it hadn’t been such a spur of the moment idea, but no one except him needed to know that. 

“Really, Buck?” Steve comes up beside him, staring at the bus dubiously. “And I thought military Jeeps back in the day were ugly. This takes the cake.” 

“It’s not _that_ bad,” Bucky protests, smirking. “It just needs a little… touching up. It has personality.” And he has this stupid little fantasy of driving down desert roads at sunset with the windows down and music that feels like flying blasting through the speakers and nights camping wherever they may end up, scrunched into one pallet in the back of the bus with the starlight illuminating them through the windows. Yeah. Maybe he’s considered this before, back when he had been confined to Wakanda and it hadn’t been an option. _Maybe_ he had even started planning out the route and every stupid tourist trap he wants to see. “We’ll get some paint, you can do one side, I’ll do the other and we’ll see whose side ends up looking better by the end of the trip.” 

“That’s just setting yourself up to fail, Bucky.” Steve sighs and pushes his hands through his hair, shaking his head and frowning. “Actually, I don’t know. Yours probably would end up looking better. It’s been… a long time since I’ve even touched a pencil, let alone paint.” 

The words hit harder than Steve probably means them to. Because the truth is, Bucky hadn’t seen Steve draw once in the time between him breaking his programming and Steve leaving on that quantum platform. He’d wondered about it but Steve was so closed off, he hadn’t brought it up. Figured maybe he only drew when he was alone. He should have known. Maybe if he’d encouraged him to take that outlet for his emotions again.... “Here,” he pulls a sharpie out of his pocket and presses it into Steve’s hand, offering his arm out, palm up, as a canvas. “No time like the present.” 

“Bucky, I-” Steve stares at the marker, his fingers trembling just slightly. “I don’t think I can.” 

“Why not?” He steps closer, into Steve’s space. Steve’s eyes flick up to meet his and they’re red rimmed, shining with unshed tears. Everything in him screams to _fix it_ , because this is _wrong_. “Hey,” he cups Steve’s jaw gently. “Talk to me.” 

“I just,” Steve shrugs, “At first everything was too different. Nobody knew I drew, I didn’t know where to get supplies. And once I did it’s like… I don’t know. I think it’s broken- _I’m_ broken. There’s nothing there,” he shudders, looking away. “And after I let- well. I deserve to lose what made me happy before.” 

“Don’t say that. You’re not broken. You’re _hurting _. But you don’t have to punish yourself and give up something you love. You deserve to have nice things.” He’s out of his element and mostly repeating things his therapist in Wakanda had told him, but that doesn’t make him mean the words any less. Doesn’t make them any less true.__

____

“You weren’t there, Bucky. You don’t know- I just let it happen. I didn’t even try to stop it.” 

____

They’re starting to attract attention from the other people walking around the lot so Bucky pulls open the driver’s door of the bus, “Alright, get in.” He waits until Steve climbs into the driver’s seat before rounding the hood and taking the passenger side. He sits in the seat sideways, legs tucked under him so he can face Steve. “Do you understand exactly what I did from 1945 until 2014? I’ve killed hundreds of people- _good people_ that didn’t deserve to die. It didn’t matter that I was brainwashed and didn’t even know my own name. I did it. I didn’t try to stop any of it either.” He holds up his hand when Steve opens his mouth to speak- no doubt to defend him and tell him he wasn’t at fault and shouldn’t blame himself. “Do you think that means I don’t deserve to do things that make me happy now?” 

____

“Of course not!” 

____

“How about if I… if I tell you that they didn’t force me to forget? I asked them to do it. Knowing what they planned to do with me. I still asked.” Bucky swallows hard, leaning his head back to look at the roof of the vehicle. He’s never told anyone about this other than his therapist and even still the shame of it eats him up. Because if he was back in that situation, he’d do it again. “They came in one day, with a newspaper and a radio recording. The headline was about the Valkyrie crash. About your death. The recording was your last transmission with Peggy. It had already been seven years at that point, but I didn’t know. They left me with that paper and that recording playing on a loop and it was the worst night of my entire experience with Hydra. I can take a lot of physical pain, Steve; I can handle being tortured without batting an eyelash. But listening to that, over and over. It shattered something. I couldn’t handle it, knowing you had done that and I hadn’t been with you. So when they came in the next morning and told me they could make me forget if I wanted, I said yes. Yes, please. Do I still deserve to be happy now?” 

____

Steve is staring at him with that awful kicked puppy expression and the tears that had been shining in his eyes are now rolling down his cheeks. Shit, maybe Bucky shouldn’t have said anything; maybe he’s only made it worse. The past days have been a horrible crash course in learning about this new side of Steve. And he hates it. He _hates_ watching Steve cry and knowing that there’s no easy fix for this. Steve had never been a crier. He’s just so overwhelmed and traumatized from what the past few months of his life have been like that he can’t hold it in anymore. “You deserve _everything_ ,” Steve’s voice cracks on the last word. “I don’t care what you did. You _survived_. I don’t have to be alone and that’s really all that matters to me. You could have willingly done it all and I wouldn’t care.” 

____

“Then you have to understand that it goes both ways. You deserve good things, I deserve good things. I know about guilt, sweetheart, but you can’t let it take over you. He wouldn’t have blamed you either. If I know anything about the Winter Soldier’s mindset, it’s that he was always ready to die. It was a relief.” He reaches across the space between them to tug on Steve’s sleeve. He’s wearing Bucky’s spare jacket, the black bomber- not that it really does much against the autumn chill. “C’mere.” 

____

Steve practically flings himself across the space; the only thing keeping him from being in Bucky’s lap is how wide the seats are. He’d anticipated this and left his hair half down today, the top section gathered in a bun at the crown of his head. Steve’s fingers twist into the loose curls though and he shudders against Bucky’s neck. “I can’t lose you again. I can’t. It’s the worst thing in the world.” 

____

“I know. I know it is.” They’ve both been through it too many times for one lifetime. He’s terrified that it will keep happening, but not enough to give this up. Not for anything. Even if they lose each other again eventually, every second they had each other would have been worth it. At least for Bucky. 

____

Steve is silent for a long time, his breathing slowly regulating, but he doesn’t let go. Finally, when he speaks, it’s a sentence Bucky honestly hadn’t been expecting. “Today is my birthday.” 

____

He pulls back just far enough to look the other man in the eye, “Steve, it’s October.” 

____

“Here, yeah. But it was July 1st when I left 2012.” Steve shrugs, ducking his chin. “It’s not really a big deal-”

____

“It’s a big deal to _me_. I don’t know if I can find any fireworks this late notice, but as soon as we pay for this bus we’re going to celebrate. Twenty seven, right?” 

____

“Wait, you’re serious about this car?” Steve wrinkles his nose, looking around the interior. “It smells like cat piss in here, Buck.” 

____

Bucky preens and peers into the backseat area. “Well, you know how much I love cats, so if there’s a stray that’s hiding in there somewhere, that’s just no problem.” 

____

“No cats.” Steve pulls away and sits on the edge of the driver’s seat again, pressing his hand on the steering wheel and they both jump when the van starts blaring _La Cucaracha_. The silence that follows is almost deafening in comparison. “What the fuck,” Steve whispers. 

____

Bucky bursts into laughter. 

____

***

____

__Buying a car is a bit more complicated than Bucky had anticipated it being. The salesman had asked for things like a _driver’s license_ and a _insurance card_ and a proof of fucking residency. It had taken a little persuading- mostly Bucky pushing Steve in front of him and announcing _“He’s Captain America.”_ \- for the guy to give in and let them have it. The extra five thousand dollars hadn’t hurt their cause either. 

Regardless, they’re driving through Manhattan in an ugly van that smells like cat piss and it’s _theirs_ now. Bucky had fiddled with the radio but it was messed up and only picked up a few static filled channels. He’d just get a Bluetooth speaker and glue it to the dashboard or something. He’s handy with mechanics but not _that_ handy. “So.” He glances over at Steve, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. It’s been a long time since he’s driven stick but all that mission training hadn’t been for nothing. “It’s your birthday. What do you want to do?” 

“Dunno,” Steve tilts his head back against the top of the seat. There’s no headrests, which is probably… not that great as far as vehicle safety goes but they aren’t supersoliders for nothing. “Don’t care, really. If I weren’t… here… I probably wouldn’t have even remembered it.” 

“Alright, then.” Bucky can handle this. He has a few ideas. He switches lanes and takes the next turn toward FDR drive. “It’s a bit of a drive, we’re gonna need some music.” He nods at his phone, sitting on the seat next to his thigh. “Password is 987654320. Spotify is in the first folder in the bottom bar, put on whatever you want.” 

“That’s….”

“Your serial number, yeah.” He licks his lower lip and merges the van into the flow of traffic. It’s definitely not as easy in urban settings as the motorcycle he’s been using. 

Steve is silent for a few minutes, presumably figuring out how to work the music platform. Even a few months out of the ice, Bucky knows he’s definitely not as hopeless with technology as he appears to others. That’s one thing that his Steve had told him- he’d figured out all the electronics they threw at him even before the Chitauri attack had happened. 

“Um… why is there a playlist on here called _If You Know How I Feel, Why Would You Say That? Like You Put Me In Such An Uncomfortable Situation Like You Know I’m Not Happy_?”

Of course he’s looking through Bucky’s playlists rather than just putting on an album or an artist. Of course he is. “Well-”

“Oh my god, why is there one called _I Don’t Need Friends, They Disappoint Me_?”

“I was having a moment of extreme distress, please.” Bucky huffs. “Just put on something, I don’t care which one.” 

“Fine, fine.” New York traffic is anything but quiet, but his phone has an enhanced speaker on it, so when the first notes of the music start, they can still hear it clearly. 

“Oh,” Bucky whispers, glancing over, because this is Always in My Head by Coldplay and there’s only one playlist that he has it on. One of the first ones he made upon coming out of cryo, entitled _I’d Give Up Every Star In The Sky For You_. He’d never anticipated it being seen by any eyes other than his own, and maybe Shuri. But Steve has turned sideways in his seat, leaning his head back against the window, watching Bucky with a little smile on his face. 

“Where are we going?” 

Bucky grins and changes lanes. “Coney Island.” 

***

“Cyclone first,” is the first thing out of Steve’s mouth when they have their tickets and they’re through the gates of Luna Park. He’s shielding his eyes against the bright, early afternoon sun, staring at the tall coaster with his jaw clenched. It’s relatively unchanged from the last time they were here, in the 30s. New paint, probably reinforced, but it’s without a doubt the same ride that had scared the shit out of both of them- not that Bucky had admitted to it- and made Steve lose his lunch. 

Bucky perches his left hand on his hip and tucks the loose strands of hair behind his ear. “You sure? We can always start off with something easy… maybe the carousel.” 

Steve doesn’t dignify that with a reply, apparently, because he’s grabbing Bucky’s wrist and dragging him toward the coaster. There’s not that many people here and there’s no line, no one except them to ride. 

“Back car,” Bucky tugs Steve’s sleeve when he starts to get in one of the middle carts. “Or front, I guess, if you want the view. Back feels the drops the best, though.” 

Steve is starting to look a little pale already, his lips pressed just thin enough to give away his nerves. This big strong soldier that’s jumped out of planes and bombed buildings and fought aliens, still intimidated by the fear of his youth. “Back is fine.” He follows Bucky to the last car and they squeeze into the bench, so much tighter than the last time they were here, when Steve was so small the seatbelt hadn’t strapped down tight enough to hold him in place and Bucky had had to hold him in the ride with an arm across his chest. Now they’re pressed together so tightly from shoulder to ankle that it’s a little uncomfortable and probably against regulation but the ride attendant had definitely recognized them and doesn’t say a word when he checks the lap bar. 

When the guy says, “Enjoy the ride,” and hits the button and the car jerks forward, Steve flinches and grabs Bucky’s hand tight, tight enough that it would have broken the bones of anyone unenhanced. 

Bucky nudges him with his shoulder, flips their hands and lets their fingers intertwine. “I’ve got you.” His heart is thundering in his breastbone, just the same as it did ninety years ago but it’s not from fear this time. Hydra had burned the aversion to heights right out of him, forcing him to jump from higher and higher ledges, to test his strength and teach him to fall, until his legs broke on impact. This is nothing. 

The way their hands clasp is everything. 

When they go down the first drop, Steve screams just a little and Bucky laughs, tilting his head back, relishing the swoop in his stomach, all too far away but still so familiar. They’re here and they’re alive. Here, and alive, and together. By the second drop, Steve is laughing too, both of their arms stretched to the sky. 

Bucky’s hair is thoroughly ruined by the time the ride circles back to the station. Both of their faces reddened by the cold wind. It takes a bit of maneuvering to get out of the car, with how crushed together they’d been. He’s still laughing a little when he tugs Steve from the car, a little wobbly but grinning ear to ear. “Do we need to find a trash can?” He shoves his hair behind his ear with his free hand, not willing to let go of Steve’s hand for anything. 

“You know… I’m good. I’m really, really good. Actually, I’m kind of hungry. Breakfast was a while ago.” Steve sets off toward the exit ramp, Bucky following. “You’ve gotta be _starving_ , all you had was a smoothie. Wanna go for a hot dog?” He points at the eatery right across from them. 

Bucky’s stomach curdles at the very thought. He absolutely very much does _not_ want to go for a hot dog. If he’d thought this through a little better he could have stopped somewhere before they got here and grabbed lunch for himself. But… he pastes on a smile. “I’m not hungry, really. We can grab a few for you if you want, though.” 

“Alright, cut the crap.” Steve turns to him, entirely unimpressed. “I heard your stomach growling the entire drive here. Whatever’s going on, you don’t have to lie to me about it.” 

It was probably stupid of him to ever think he could keep it from Steve and it’s hardly the worst thing in the world, but it still makes him uncomfortable. He’s a supersoldier, for fuck’s sake. He ought to be able to eat straight garbage and digest it with no issues, but he _can’t_ and it’s like he’s fucking broken. He huffs and shoves his hair away from his face again. “I just… have this _thing_.”

“This thing?” Steve prompts, untangling their fingers so he can move behind Bucky, tugging the elastic from what’s left of his half bun. It snaps against Steve’s wrist and then there’s fingers combing through his hair, gently tugging out any tangles from the ride. His breath hitches in his chest when fingernails scratch softly against his scalp, parting off a section at the top of his head. French braid, then. He tilts his head back, giving Steve a better reach. “Tell me about it.” 

“When Hydra had me… for seventy fucking years, Steve. All I got was nutrient shots. I didn’t eat. At all. That whole time. And now it’s like… I just can’t. My stomach doesn’t know what to do with it, unless it’s light, almost nothing foods. And I don’t understand it, because I can heal from so much, so easily. But this… it took me two years to make it from broth and fruits to vegetable soups.” He sucks his lower lip into his mouth, shivering just a little when Steve’s fingers lightly brush the nape of his neck, gathering the hairs there and twisting them into the braid. “I’d be the one throwing up in every trash can if I eat anything they have to offer here.” 

Steve ties off the braid and rests his chin on Bucky’s shoulder, arms wrapping around his waist from behind to hug him. “There’s a lot of restaurants here, Buck. We’ll go to every one of them until we find something that you can eat, and if none of them have anything, then we’ll leave and go somewhere that does.” 

“But it’s your birthday,” Bucky protests, turning his head to the side to frown at Steve. “I wanted you to have fun.” 

“I don’t care about my birthday, Buck. It’s just a day. I’ll have a lot more fun if I know you’re not starving yourself and running your body to the ground because you aren’t taking in the calories you need.” He squeezes slightly and then releases him in favor of grabbing Bucky’s hand again and heading straight for the nearest employee. “Hey, where can we go around here to get some real food?” 

The woman squints at them. “Like pizza?” 

“Preferably less greasy.” 

“Gargiulo’s, like a block away,” she rolls her eyes. 

“Holy shit, that’s still here?” It had always been one of those unattainable places for them to stand outside and smell the food cooking but never, never go in. They’d never dreamed of being able to afford it, but now… yeah they could afford it now. If all else failed, they would definitely have some sort of salad Bucky could eat while Steve demolished like five plates of pasta. 

“Um-”

“Never mind,” Steve smiles at the woman and sets off, back toward the park entrance. “C’mon, we’re eating like the fancy folks today.” 

“Steve, we don’t even have a reservation and my jeans have rips in the knees _and_ ass, there’s no way they’re gonna let us in.” 

“Sure, they are. I’m Captain America. We just illegally bought a car. A restaurant is no big deal, it’ll be easy.” 

It is not, in fact, easy. 

“I’m Captain America,” Steve tells the flustered owner, again, brandishing the Avengers ID that Sam had given him in his face, again. “This is Bucky Barnes. We’re very rich and very hungry. I do not see the problem here. We give you money, you give us food.” 

The guy huffs, red faced. “As I said before _Captain Rogers_ , we have a policy-”

“Well, Mr…”

“Anthony Russo.” 

“Mr. Anthony Russo, your restaurant is empty in the middle of the lunch rush on a Saturday. Being as there’s no one at any of these tables, I think you can find space for two war heroes and by the way, we knew the original owners and I think they’d be extremely disappointed and frankly humiliated by the way you seem to run the business now.” 

Bucky barely holds in a snort of laughter. The only ‘knowing’ of the original owners they’d been doing was being yelled at for loitering and then they got escorted off the property by a police officer. “C’mon, Steve. It’s not worth it. It’s probably shitty fake Italian now anyway. You can get your hot dog and I can wait until we leave.” 

Anthony Russo glares at them and then huffs, waving at the nervous hostess. “Alright, alright. You’ve made your point.” He stomps off into the back. 

“Captain, Sergeant, I am _so_ sorry about the inconvenience,” The hostess grabs a couple of menus and leads them toward a table next to a window facing the boardwalk. “Things have been a little tough with the whole… you know. Your waiter will be with you in a moment.” 

“Told you it would be easy,” Steve scrunches his nose and smiles as he sits down, flipping open the menu. 

“Nothing about that was easy, but I appreciate your tenacity.” Bucky glances around the room, all white tablecloths and fine furniture. “Christ, did you ever think we’d actually end up in here?” 

“Nope.” Steve brushes his bangs away from his forehead. “But I’m glad we are, even if it ends up being nothing like what we imagined it would be.” 

“Me too.” He bumps the side of Steve’s foot with his own under the table and flips his menu open. The tight, fluttery feeling in his chest is nothing to do with nerves from the food because hey- they have chicken soup here. He can _have_ that. The butterflies are there because… maybe they haven’t said it but he’s pretty sure this counts as a date. 

***

They end up back at Luna Park after lunch, full and ready for the rest of the afternoon. Bucky heads straight for the arcade. 

“There’s no redhead here for you to waste your money trying to win a rigged game,” Steve points out as Bucky heads straight for the Pyramid Smash. 

“I don’t need a redhead,” Bucky winks at Steve, “I got you.” He signals to the guy running the game, swipes his card, and takes the balls the guy hands him. Six cans, two balls to knock them down with. 

He only needs one. 

When the guy hands him the giant pink stuffed bear he points at, he turns around gives it to Steve, only blushing a little. “Happy Birthday, kid.” 

Steve practically glows for the rest of the afternoon. They go on all of the coasters, even the ones that look absolutely terrifying. When the sun is just starting to set, they go on the Wonder Wheel. Bucky had adamantly refused to go on it, ever, when they were kids. At least roller coasters were fast and he could squeeze his eyes shut but he’d had a deep fear of the Wonder Wheel. They get in one of the white cars, the ones that don’t swing but have the best view. 

Bucky’s heart trips and stutters in his chest all the way to the top, watching Steve. Back in the day, all the guys talked about was taking their best girls to the top of the wheel and kissing them under the stars, telling them they’re prettier than the moon. And he could do that. Steve is practically mesmerized by the skyline but Bucky can’t look away from _him_. The way his hair shines like spun gold in the fiery light of the sunset. The sweep of his lashes against his cheeks when he blinks. He could kiss him. Steve wouldn’t mind. The wheel comes to a stop, right when they reach the top. He could kiss Steve right now. 

His arms feel like they’re filled with static that’s spreading into his chest and head and stomach and he’s opening his mouth to ask, _can I…_ , but Steve finally turns away from the view and the words die on his lips. 

“I think I want to draw now,” Steve says softly. 

“Alright,” Bucky pulls the marker out of his pocket before shrugging his jacket off and pushing up the sleeve of his right arm, extending it across the space between them. 

Steve uncaps the marker, holding the lid between his teeth and hesitating only a moment before he takes a deep breath and starts to draw. By the time they get to the bottom, Bucky has a perfect replica of the Manhattan skyline across his forearm. 

He doesn’t push his sleeve back down for the entire ride home. 

***

Sam is taking out the trash when they pull up in front of the brownstone and of course the first thing he does is laugh at their new car. And by laughing, that means he’s leaning on the trash can, _wheezing_.

“Yes, thank you, Samuel.” Bucky scowls at him. “You’ve made your point.” 

“Dude, do you even know how bad the gas mileage is on those things,” Sam wipes his eyes on the sleeve of his sweater. “Oh man, when you said road trip vehicle, I was thinking like... a Prius or something, I don’t know. You’re going full hippie.” He finally takes a moment to squint at them, glancing at the teddy bear Steve is holding under one arm. “Are you _sunburnt_? Where did you guys go all day?” 

“It’ll be gone by morning,” Steve shifts. “We were at Coney Island.” 

“Aw. That’s cute. Everyone’s in the den, we were about to have a movie night. You should join them, we’ll be there in a minute.” Sam waits until Steve has started up the steps to grab Bucky’s arm and stare at him with raised brows. “Are you sure about this?” 

“No.” Bucky sighs and tilts his head back, to the starless night sky. “But I have this opportunity and I have to take it and run with it, even if I end up hurt again in the end. Because if it all works out… that will be _everything_.”

“Just remember your mental health is the most important thing. It won’t be easy to always differentiate between them.” Sam pats his back and bounds up the stairs. “I’m gonna go wash my hands and grab a drink and then I’ll join y’all. You want anything?” 

“Water is fine,” Bucky smiles at him and heads toward the chaos in the den. Steve has curled up in the corner of one of the couches but Nat has Sage pinned to the ground in a classic defense training technique. “You can get out of her hold,” Bucky points out to the teenager, coming to stand over them. “She’s left you an opening.” 

“No… she… didn’t.” Sage grunts and squirms, her free leg flailing in an attempt to kick the redhead but never making enough contact. 

“Yes, I did.” Natasha doesn’t let up. “Stop panicking, _focus_ , and find it.” 

Bucky doesn’t offer any more help, moving to sit next to Steve on the couch and watch. Sage does stop fighting, going limp and frowning. “I don’t know,” she finally huffs. “I give up.” 

“You don’t give up, _ever_.” Steve sits up straighter, gazing intently at her. “Plant your free leg, push up with your hips, and roll.” When she does, successfully, he smiles at her. “There you go.” 

“If this were a real fight, your next move would be to knee me in the crotch but I think that can be left for another night.” Natasha jumps to her feet and offers her hand to tug Sage up too as Sam comes into the room. She takes the last cushion on Steve and Bucky’s couch and Sam and Sage take the chairs. Netflix is already up on the TV but no one has put the movie on yet, whatever it is. “Steve, I think you’re really going to like what we’ve picked to watch.” Natasha glances over with a sly smile on her lips. 

“I don’t trust you after you made me watch The Ring and you know it.” 

“What are we watching?” Bucky tilts his head, questioning. 

“The Conjuring.” Natasha grins and starts to type in the movie name in the search bar. “It’s not even out yet in our timeline but there’s a bunch of them here….” She clicks on the movie when it pulls up. An old farmhouse in the background behind a creepy dead tree, a noose hanging from it. Definitely a horror then. “Steve doesn’t like this kind of movie.” 

“You know what, fuck off, Natasha.” Steve stretches his leg across Bucky’s lap to kick her thigh. 

“Don’t worry, I’m sure Barnes won’t mind if you use him as your own personal life sized teddy bear. He _might_ even let you hide your face in his chest.” Nat teases. 

Steve sinks further down in his seat, folding his arms across his chest and poking his lower lip out, just a little. It’s a look Bucky hasn’t seen since… holy shit, since the war. It was never an intentional thing, he was pretty sure Steve still doesn’t know he makes that face. The time between 2012 and 2016 had killed off whatever shreds of this Steve there had been left and he hadn’t realized how _much_ he had missed him. Just on the right side of spoiled. He’s looking at Bucky with those baby blues, the one’s he’s never been able to resist. 

“Are you… pouting?” Sam is gaping. “Dude. Who are you and what have you done with Steve Rogers?” 

But Bucky grins, rolling his eyes and nudging Steve to swap places with him so he can lean on the arm of the couch while Steve leans on him, tucked under his arm. This Steve, this terribly young Steve who had never had to see Bucky in limbo between himself and the Soldier; this is _his_ Steve. This Steve never had to learn that giving Bucky the puppy eyes won’t get him what he wants every damn time. “I got you,” he whispers for the second time that day. 

“I know.”


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the delay in updating yet again :(( hopefully i'll be able to get back to weekly now that i've wrapped everything up in this chapter that i really needed to and we can officially start the Second Part. as you may be able to guess, fluff is difficult for me to write so i've been struggling hard since reuniting our boys. on that note, i really don't have much else to say except enjoy??? 
> 
> (also if anyone was wondering, i kind of picture sage looking something like ig user pasabist just a fun tidbit hehe)

“I’m beginning to think we should have made a list.” 

Steve almost laughs at Bucky’s disgruntled expression as he scowls at their three carts. They’re in the middle of a bright red, _massive_ store called Target, attempting to shop for their road trip. It’s going about as well as could be expected. Which is to say, not well at all because they have no idea what they’re doing. 

“Why are we even in the bedding section?” Sage is perched on one of the carts, feet up on the runner and elbows draped over the handle. “Aren’t you getting hotels?” 

“Nope.” Bucky doesn’t stop scowling at the wall of fake down comforters, all rolled up neatly in their little plastic packages. “I mean… maybe in some places, but not when we’re out at the Grand Canyon. We’re ripping the back seats out of the van tonight. Gonna make a big pallet in the back. There’s not a single feather mattress here?” 

Steve’s heart nearly stops at his words. They’ve been sleeping on entirely different floors of the house, even after yesterday at Coney Island, Bucky had still said goodnight and went up the stairs without a second glance. It’s not like sharing a bed is anything new to them, they’d only been able to afford one bed in Brooklyn and it worked out better in the long run because he would have frozen to death a long time before the serum if they hadn’t been sharing body heat in the winters. And in the war during the cold months, when he didn’t get cold anymore, Bucky had been the one huddled chest to chest with him, face pressed against his neck. The other commandos hadn’t judged, considering they were always fighting with each other to be the one who got to sleep pressed to Steve’s back at night. 

He was discovering that he can get cold again now, since the ice. 

Sage points toward the end of the aisle, to another wall of plastic packages. “Feather really isn’t common now. Besides, you don’t want it, not when memory foam exists. Just get a couple of those mattress toppers and stack them on top of each other.” 

“Huh,” Bucky shrugs. “Alright. Grab like four of whatever you think the most comfortable one is. I don’t want to feel the van floor through them at all.” When Sage wheels her cart away, he turns to Steve with a small smile. “Now about blankets… it’s gonna be cold so we need to get- well. I guess not as many as I would have thought. You still a space heater in human form?” 

“I,” Steve tugs at the sleeves of Bucky’s jacket. He should really see about getting some clothes of his own while they’re here so he can stop borrowing. “I don’t know?” 

“What do you mean you don’t know?” Blue eyes squint at him suspiciously. 

“I just… I’m cold. _All the time_. Since the ice, I can feel it in my bones but,” he sounds stupid. With the serum he should be regulating his temperature all the time. “I don’t know. Maybe it’s all in my head.” He releases the sleeves of the jacket to dig his fingernails into his palms, hard. 

“No, I know what you mean.” Bucky steps around his cart to grab Steve’s hands, forcing his fingers to uncurl, to stop their assault on his skin. “I _know_. It’s like your skin is warm and all but you can still feel the cold like it’s a part of you now.” 

That was exactly it. He lets out a shuddery breath and nods. 

“So, blankets. Lots of them. We’ll make a blanket nest if that’s what it takes.” Bucky squeezes his hands gently and then turns to the shelves. “As many as you want.” He pulls a bright, puffy, sunflower yellow comforter down and puts it in his cart. He’s humming along to the music playing over the speakers, some upbeat pop song. Immediately following that is a thick pastel pink blanket that’s knit like a sweater. 

Steve wanders over to the quilts, running his fingers over the material. The seams are all foreign, perfect, the material too stiff. He’d had a quilt in Brooklyn, one his grandmother had made and sent with his mother when she left Ireland. It had been patched in so many places, the material so old it was worn through in places. But it had been softer than anything else he had ever owned. It was gone now, of course. Everything was, except the two of them. He sighs and walks further down the aisle, to the selection of fluffy fleece blankets. Several of them end up in his cart. 

“Hey, can you see Sage from there?” 

Bucky’s words draw his attention to the end of the aisle where the teenager had been inspecting the mattress toppers just a minute ago, but she’s nowhere to be seen. He frowns, leaving his cart to walk to the end of the aisle and look both ways. “She’s not here.” He strains to hear over the chaos mismatch of noises in the store- the people talking, the music, the packages rattling, the air rushing through the vents- but it’s all kind of turned into white noise. Too much input has to be tuned out. He’d learnt that well during the USO tour when the lights and the color and the noise would have him cowering in supply closets after shows, his head splitting apart from the migraines. It was nothing compared to the future. He can’t understand how anyone without serum manages to handle it all and go on with their daily lives. 

“She was _just there_.” Bucky is stiff, his features pinched with anxious lines. “We looked away for like… a minute.” 

“Buck, I’m sure it’s fine. She probably just went to look for something and she’ll be right back.” 

Bucky rubs his right hand over his face and lets out a slow breath. “I know… I know. It’s just- when the snap happened, if you looked away for a second, someone might not have been there when you looked back. _I_ wasn’t there. In the blink of an eye. I know the fucker that did it is dead, I watched him die. But I still-”

“Hey,” Steve walks back over to him and grabs his hand, squeezing it lightly. “You don’t have to apologize. I can’t even imagine what it must have been like. But her cart isn’t there and there are no ashes on the floor. So we’ll go find her. Okay?” 

“Yeah,” his voice is a little faint but his breathing is evening out again so Steve counts it as a win. “Yeah, let’s go.” 

It doesn’t take them very long to locate her. She’s in the lamp aisle, arms folded across her chest and her face rock hard as a middle aged woman in a suit scolds her in hissing whispers. Bucky doesn’t let his cart come to a stop; he just lets it go and pushes past Steve to rush to her side. 

“Sage-”

“Who are you?” The woman snaps, scowling at Bucky. “Step away from my daughter.” As soon as she says the words, the resemblance is clear. The same facial structure, same coppery skin and dark eyes. But where Sage’s features are more impish, her mother’s are pinched, stern. 

The change folds over Bucky’s features so quickly that Steve almost stumbles in shock. The awful, dead eyed anger that he’d faced in that bunker at Camp Lehigh. But Bucky’s hands are gentle when he places them on Sage’s shoulders and the only recipient of his glare is the woman- Sage’s mother. “Last I checked, _ma’am_ , you disowned her.” 

“Bucky, it’s fine. Finish your shopping, I can handle this by myself,” Sage’s voice belies her words, thick and trembling. 

“I know you can. But you don’t have to.” 

“Who do you think you are?” 

“James Buchanan Barnes. You might also know me as the Winter Soldier.” The smile that spreads across Bucky’s face is, frankly, chilling. “Did you know I was pardoned from the whole international criminal thing during the five years of the Snap? As far as anyone that matters knows, I’m retired, but you know… I don’t much like shitty parents.” 

He’ll die before he admits to it, but heat crackles down Steve’s spine watching the exchange. It wasn’t exactly the Winter Soldier attitude that he finds appealing- what had happened in 2012 is still to raw and open of a wound for that to do anything but cause an ache. But he’d always gotten hot under the collar back in Brooklyn when Bucky had threatened someone who called him a fairy or anything derogatory as much as he had protested that he could handle himself. That spark apparently extends to Bucky threatening _anyone_ who deserved it. 

To the woman’s credit, she doesn’t back down even though her face pales drastically. She clenches her jaw and turns her attention back to the teenager. “As I was saying before we were rudely interrupted, I’ve spoken to your father and calmed him down. You’re more than welcome to come back home, as long as you get rid of that ridiculous hair and stop dressing like a harlot. He overreacted and he regrets it but you can’t blame him. It’s been a deeply traumatizing experience for us.” 

“You think it wasn’t traumatizing for _me_?” Sage cries, stumbling back a step. “I’m the one who had to live through those five years! Fucking forgive me if I distract myself from all the noise in my head by dyeing my hair fun colors and dressing how I want to dress. I’m not fucking dead in a gang war or from starvation or suicide which is a lot more than a lot of the kids that got orphaned can say.” 

“Mind your language,” Sage’s mother presses her fingers to the bridge of her nose. “It’s not some big injustice to go back to a natural hair color, Sage. We’ll get you a therapist, my god. You have your future to consider. Do you honestly think you’ll get into Yale if you keep acting like this?” 

“I don’t want to go to Yale. Or any other Ivy. I _never_ did.” 

“And what do you expect to do with your life then? Sell yourself on a street corner?” 

“No. I want to help impoverished and homeless kids, maybe work with an outreach center. Just because people have come back now doesn’t mean everyone gets their parents back. I want to help and I want to continue to help even when all the kids from now are all grown up and there’s a new generation. I _survived_. I want to help others do the same. I don’t give a shit about law school. And I’m not moving back in with you.” 

The woman glances back and forth between the two of them before her face firms. “Then I suppose this is goodbye.” Her hands clench at her sides before she reaches out and touches Sage’s cheek lightly. “I do love you, my darling. I wish it could have been different.” Without waiting for a response, she turns on her heel and strides out of the aisle, leaving the three of them alone. 

“You okay?” Bucky asks softly. 

Sage shudders, sucking in a breath, but she nods and keeps her head held high. “Yeah. I’m good.” 

“Were you serious about the outreach center thing? Because I think I can help you with that, actually.” Bucky says, his brows drawing together. “I know someone. She won’t care about your hair color either.” 

“Really?” She perks up. “Who?” 

Bucky grins. 

***

Princess Shuri of Wakanda arrives on a flying motorcycle the next morning while they’re in the middle of filling in the holes in the floor of the van where they ripped the seats out. She’s leaning against the stair bannister, grinning when Steve sticks his head out of the van and sees her, wiggling her fingers in a teasing wave. “I have to say, Captain, I think you got younger since I last saw you. Dermatologists must hate you!” 

Somewhere behind Steve, Bucky is making a choking, snorting sort of laugh. Steve squints. “Okay, I don’t know what a dermatologist is but thank you?” 

“Skincare doctor,” Bucky pushes past him to jump down from the van and sprint over to wrap Shuri in a tight hug. “Hey, squirt.” 

“Hey yourself,” she hugs him back gently and steps away to peer inside the vehicle. “What’s with the hippie van? You know I could have set you up with something much better. How are you even going to listen to music in this thing?” 

Bucky reaches around her and grabs the bag holding the giant Bluetooth speaker and tube of superglue he had bought at Target, handing it to the princess. 

She peers inside and wrinkles her nose with a sigh. “White people.” She rubs a hand over her face. “Okay, I’m gonna fix this. I can’t be associated with someone who superglues a speaker to an old car even if it is a stupid car. I’ll have to get some stuff from the center first. Who did you want me to meet?” 

Bucky had explained the night before about the Wakandan outreach centers, how Harlem was supposed to be the next one they opened before the Snap had happened and halted those plans. As it turned out, they were immediately resuming the opening as if nothing had happened, just adding a program for children who were orphaned in the snap and are now missing parents. Shuri had been coming to oversee the opening anyway. 

“She took the dog for a walk, should be back any time.” Bucky leans against the bumper of the car, yawning. 

“You have a dog?” Shuri’s head jerks up, eyes bright. “What kind?” 

“The kind that thinks it’s a lap dog even though he’s _not_. What are you planning on doing to my classy road trip car?” 

“Things. Did you even bother to find out if the engine is sound before you bought it?” 

They hadn’t really. It ran, and that had been enough for Bucky who was apparently confident enough in the mechanical skills from his formative years spent working in garages and at the docks. Steve didn’t know much about cars except for how to steal them but he’d honestly been surprised the thing got them out to Coney Island and then around the city the past couple of days. Just their luck they would get somewhere in Jersey and promptly break down. But he would be happy to do that too as long as they were together. 

Shuri and Bucky bicker and banter like siblings, switching between languages as easy as breathing, not unlike the way that Bucky and Becca had teased each other back in Brooklyn. Steve leans against the side of the van, his knees tucked to his chest and watches them. Watches the way Bucky lights up with it. His face is still a little puffy with sleep- it’s barely eight- and his hair is a _disaster_. He’s been using some product in it to make what had been frizzy waves in Brooklyn form into full curls but in the morning when they’re half falling out of the bun he sleeps in, corkscrewing wildly in all directions, it looks a little like a bird’s nest. Steve _loves_ it. 

Bucky glances over at him, catches him watching like so many times before but this isn’t the 1940s and everything is in the open now and he doesn’t have to look away in shame, not ever again. He props his chin on top of his folded arms and smiles slowly. “You have a halo.” The early morning sun is shining bright behind Bucky’s head, illuminating him from behind. 

“Oh, really?” Bucky tilts his head to the side, a little smirk playing across his lips. “Does it work with my bad boy persona?” 

Steve laughs, “You’ve never been a ‘bad boy’ a day in your life, Barnes.” He curls his fingers in the air as he says the words. If anyone had been the bad boy, it had definitely been Steve, who had gotten himself arrested at least once every three months. Steve who picked fights he couldn’t win, Steve who brought in his share of the rent money by illegally selling himself in alleys by the docks. He’d always assumed his feelings for Bucky would be his deepest, darkest secret. But as it turns out… if their relationship actually progresses the way he hopes it will, eventually he will have to reveal the sordid truth of what he’d done. It makes him feel a little sick just thinking of it but… if they do ever end up in bed together there’s no way he can pass as a virgin or inexperienced in sex with another male at all. He’d made good money for a reason. 

“I _invented_ being a bad boy, I’m the world’s most feared assassin.” 

“You have sweater paws,” Shuri points out. 

“You cried the other night when the dog died in that stupid horror movie.” Steve had barely even been able to sleep the night after watching that. The fucking demon flashing behind his eyelids every time he shut them. He supposes it’s better off that it was that rather than the usual, very real nightmares that haunt his every moment. But he still has a grudge and he’s not letting it go any time too soon. 

“Yeah, because it was fucking sad, Steve. There was no _reason_ that had to happen; it was just a fucking plot device-”

“I know, I know.” They’d been over this before. Bucky’d spent the entire credits of the movie ranting about it. “I rest my case. You are not, and you never have been a bad boy. But you are good. The halo just proves my point.” 

“Wow, okay, I am right here, gentlemen. Get a room.” Shuri’s words are light, teasing. 

“We’re in it, actually,” Bucky waves his hand around the interior of the van. “Just doing a bit of remodeling as you can see.” 

Shuri sticks her tongue out at him and lapses into Xhosa, spouting off something that makes the faintest pink creep across Bucky’s cheeks. It’s more than a little intriguing, but while Steve is proficient in more languages than he had ever expected he would be, this isn’t one of them. He’s not about to ask for a translation though; not even when Bucky’s eyes flicker over to him thoughtfully. 

The conversation is cut off by barking as Sage approaches, Zeus pulling on his leash, eager to meet the new person. Steve doesn’t have anything against dogs, he actually prefers them over any other pet, but the entire time since he’s reunited with Bucky, Zeus has eyed him suspiciously from a distance, never getting close enough to pet. He eagerly lets everyone else in the house pet him, but not Steve. He probably deserves it. 

“Dog!” Shuri jumps up from where she had been sitting with her feet dangling over the pavement and runs over to crouch in front of Zeus, laughing as she pets him. 

Steve stretches his legs out to nudge Bucky’s sweatpants covered thigh with his foot. “So how many languages do you speak now, exactly?” 

“Oh, jeez,” Bucky knocks his head back against the van, sucking his lower lip between his teeth and chewing on it, ticking silently on his fingers. Finally, “I think twenty five. It’s hard to be sure. Sometimes I don’t realize I know one until I hear it spoken.” 

“Well, you always were the smarter of the two of us.” 

Bucky rolls his eyes, but a smile curls across his face. “Flattery would have gotten you everywhere at one point, Rogers. But I have introductions to make,” he points at the two teenagers. “I may be creating a monster here with the amount of combined attitude but oh well.” He pushes himself to his feet and saunters over to the two girls, grinning when Zeus jumps up on him. 

Steve smiles and turns back to the bags of supplies, opening the one with the selection of paints and brushes. More specifically, the tubs of glow in the dark aqua blue. The roof of the van is a plain white right now, but when he gets done with it… well. He just hopes he gets it right. 

***

“Steve,” Nat’s voice from behind him startles him enough that he almost drops the tablet he’s balancing on his thigh. Bucky, Sam, and Sage are at the outreach center with Shuri, leaving Steve and Natasha at the house for the afternoon. Steve was taking the time to research ways to help and support Bucky with his digestive issues. He doesn’t really know how easy it will be to cook on the road so he has about fifteen different tabs on raw foods open. 

“Jesus, Nat. Make a little noise next time you wanna sneak up on someone.” 

She shrugs and perches on the arm of the couch, curling her socked toes into the cushion. “We should talk.” 

Even though he had been expecting it, her words still hit him harder than he cared to admit. Taking a deep breath, he sets the tablet aside and sits up straight, facing her. “You’re going back.” 

“Yes,” she purses her lips, twisting them to the side. “You and Bucky seem to be getting along well. I don’t see him being any threat to you. And I don’t belong here. They still need me in our timeline.” 

“I know,” the words are still weak around the lump in the back of his throat. Because against all odds, he does care about her, a _lot_. She’d quickly and easily become one of the few he could say were truly a close friend. He hates the idea of living in a world where she’s dead. “I’m gonna miss you, Nat. A lot.” More than he’s willing to own up to, honestly. 

“You’re always welcome to come back with me,” she offers softly. “Bring Barnes too. I very much doubt there’s anything he wouldn’t do for you.” 

“I can’t ask him that. He has family here,” Sam, Sage, Shuri… he couldn’t do that. “I won’t try to take him away from them just because he might give them up to be with me if he had to. I’m home here now because this is where he’s home.” He has less to lose by staying in this timeline than Bucky would by making the jump to 2012 with him. “You can come back and visit.” 

“Sure,” she agrees with a smile. “Send a wedding invitation. I better be your best man.” 

Steve flushes hot, looking down at his lap. “I don’t know if _that_ is in the cards for us-”

“I’m an excellent reader of people, Steve. Something you definitely aren’t, which is evidenced by how your alter’s future turned out here. Just be open and honest with him. Love him. That’s all he really wants.” 

“That’s all I plan to do.” Truth be told, it was a relief, like a ton of bricks lifted off his shoulder that everything was in the open now. He didn’t have to hide and agonize over everything. The only thing he really worried about was the looming threat of therapy. He only had a vague idea of what it was going to entail- flashes of the windowless room that SHIELD had imprisoned him in and force fed him endless amounts of history facts and sensitivity training and a stern woman who kept asking him if he felt like killing himself. But he’d do it again; every day for the rest of his life if that was the penance he had to pay to stay here, with Bucky. He didn’t know when the therapy would start but he would face it bravely with his shoulders straight and his chin high, like he’d faced everything else in his life. 

“You’ll be okay, Steve. And so will we. We know what’s coming now and we can prevent it. I don’t intend to die on another planet.” There’s a curl dangling over her forehead and she pushes it away impatiently. “You deserve to be happy, and if your happiness is here, than it’s where you should be. Nobody will hold that against you. Your war is over.” 

“Bucky wants me to retire for good.” He hadn’t explicitly said it, only put his foot down on no active field work until Steve finished with therapy, whenever that might be. But he didn’t have to say it; it was clear across his face any time the subject of fighting had come up over the past few days. Mostly by Sam, who was coordinating with Peggy’s niece that apparently Steve had dated briefly in this timeline before marrying Peggy eventually. It was weird. He didn’t like to think about it. But Sam and Sharon are working hard with some other people to set up a new defense organization. 

“Do you want to retire for good?” 

He hesitates. There’s so much bad still in the world, so many fights that need to be fought. “I don’t know. I’ve been fighting for so long I think I’m not really sure what else there is to do if I don’t have to.” From the moment he was born, life had been a fight. To keep breathing, to not give in to the weak heart and messed up blood pressure that had him passing out nearly every time he stood up. To not get killed in an alley somewhere, by a bully or eventually by a client that didn’t want any dirty secrets getting out. And the war. God, the war. “Who am I if I’m not fighting, Natasha? If you’re so good at reading people.” 

“I’m not going to tell you that, Steve. Even if I knew, I wouldn’t. That’s the type of thing you have to figure out for yourself. But you can do it. Just give yourself time.” She slides down onto the couch cushion and reaches over to squeeze his hand. 

“When are you leaving?” His voice comes out in a near whisper. 

“I said goodbye to Clint last night and Wilson and Barnes before they left with the princess.” She doesn’t meet his gaze, looking down at their hands. 

His heart lurches hard in his chest. Then she means to leave before they get back. No dragging out the inevitable. It still makes his breath go shallow and he has to grit his teeth against the horrible urge to make her _stay_ , just because he doesn’t handle loss well anymore. This is the path he’s chosen. He’s not going to ask her to walk it with him. “Can I hug you goodbye before you go?” 

“Of course, c’mere.” She lets go of his hand to reach for him, to wrap her arms tight around his back as he presses his face to her shoulder and tries to regulate his breathing. He has no right to cry, no right to make her feel guilty for going back when that was the plan all along. He won’t let the enormity of how much he feels the loss already show until after she’s gone, when there’s no one here to see except the dog. “We’ll see each other again. It’s just a short quantum travel trip away.” 

“Right.” He sucks in a hard breath. “Thank you for being a friend. It means… a lot.” She’d done so much more in the short time they’d known one another than he could have ever asked of her. He wouldn’t even be here at all if not for her. “You saved me. I can’t thank you enough for that.” 

“Just don’t go doing any dumb shit like that again and we’re even.” She squeezes, hard, and then leans back. One hand dropping to the small pod on her belt that holds the nano suit and Pym Particles. “Goodbye, Steve.” 

“Goodbye, Nat.” 

And the suit unfolds across her skin and she’s gone. Just like that. 

He can’t even swallow around the lump in his throat as he pulls his knees to his chest and chokes on each breath he inhales, the silence of the house ringing in his ears. It had to happen, but that doesn’t make it any easier. Fat, hot tears spill from his eyes, tracing burning, shameful paths down his cheeks. He has no right to be this upset, he doesn’t. He should be glad she left now instead of waiting until after he left with Bucky for their road trip. His fingernails dig crescents into his palms, his breathing ragged. 

There’s a small whoosh of hot air and then a wet nose pressing against his hand. His head jerks up and he stares at Zeus for a long, long moment. The fucking dog that wouldn’t have anything to do with him before this moment. “Are you here to judge me?” Zeus responds by climbing up onto the couch and shoving his way between Steve’s knees and his chest, whining softly and putting his front paws up on Steve’s shoulders. 

Like a hug. 

He shudders hard and buries his hands in warm fur, letting the tears come out as they want to. There’s no one here to care for right now. Better to get it out before anyone gets here to see his weakness. Zeus patiently stays with him until his wracking sobs turn to hitching breaths and eventually to sleep, curled on his side on the soft couch. 

He’s still there when Bucky shakes Steve awake later with a smile.


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oof don't hate me for the way this is so late im trying my best uhhhh . so i've never actually been to chicago and if anything in here is super inaccurate pls let me know and also pls forgive me for glossing over AI so hard bc ive never been there or any art museum actually so i had to kind of summarize rather than go into to detail sorry :/
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> if you want to listen to bucky’s road trip playlist you can find it linked under my pinned tweet on my twitter bc i’m a dumbass that doesn’t know how imbedding links on ao3 works so i can’t link it here 😭

_The Road Trip, Day One_

It’s right at 4am when they pile into the newly modified van and leave behind New York City. Bucky is actually happy to be up early for once in his life, just ready to get on the road and get out of the city. Steve, ever chipper in the mornings is walking around wrapped in a blanket against the cold but he’s smiling and that’s enough to make Bucky smile. When they’d come back from the outreach center and he’d woken Steve up, it had been impossible to miss his still blotchy, swollen face and red rimmed eyes but he hadn’t said anything about it as they’d situated the makeshift pallet in the back of the van and packed their things around it. Shuri hadn’t actually done much to it other than hook it up to some sort of computer to make sure it wasn’t going to break down on them and install a couple of micro Bluetooth speakers throughout the vehicle. ‘Tiny, but you’ll have surround sound, way better than that junk you bought’ she’d assured him. 

Bucky has one hand on the steering wheel and the other on the gear shift and there’s a giant mug of coffee for him to sip from. The sun is peeking over the horizon as they head north for I-80 and Lana Del Rey playing softly over the speakers. Steve is quiet, drowsy, lulled by the music and motion of the car. He’d offered to drive but Bucky isn’t stupid. Steve’s barely out of the ice which means the only driving he knows how to do is what he learned in the war. Maybe when they’re out somewhere _far_ from any other people, Bucky will let him have a turn behind the wheel; teach him how to handle a stick shift. But on the packed interstate out of the city? There’s no way. 

The further away from the city they get, the more the silence between them starts to eat into Bucky as suburbia gives away to mountainous scenery. They’ve talked, of course they have, but now he’s realizing they’ll have nothing else to do for the entire trip but talk or ignore each other. They’re going to be on the road for a long time, hell, their first stop is Chicago and that’s a good twelve and a half hours away. Steve doesn’t seem to be the one keen on kicking off the conversation either. Bucky sighs, glancing over at the blond. He’s leaning his head against the pillow between his head and the window, chewing on his lower lip as he watches the scenery. “Do you wanna talk about her?” 

“Natasha?” Steve shifts in his seat to look over. “No.” 

“No one ever wants to talk about their feelings, Steve. But once you do, it really does help.” That was one of the first things he had learned from his therapist in Wakanda. And hell if he had a lot of bad fucking feelings he didn’t ever want to see the light. “You don’t have to if you don’t want to, but I thought I’d offer.” 

Steve is silent for so long that Bucky almost wonders if he’s being blatantly ignored- not almost. His chest knots up with anxiety, the stupid whispers of how he’s pushing too much, how Steve is already figuring out Bucky will never be good enough for him. But then the blond huffs angrily. “I’m just bein’ dumb. I knew all along that she was going back- hell, I _told her_ before we ever even made the timeline jump that she would be returning to 2012 without me. I don’t have any right to be upset or… or to miss her. It’s not even like I knew her that long.” 

It’s another thing he has a hard time reconciling- the Steve and Natasha he knew, practically attached at the hip, as close with each other as Bucky himself had been with Steve once upon a time. And this Steve who really barely knew his Nat, but still managed to develop the roots of that friendship already. “Of course you’re allowed to miss her, Steve. You’re not selfish for that. She’s your friend.” 

“I should be happy. I’m _here_. I have you.” Even though he doesn’t say them, Bucky still hears the words he’s thinking loud and clear: _Why aren’t I happy?_

Bucky’s back teeth grind together, just a little, just enough to make his jaw ache. He hates that he can’t fix this. They can pretend all they want but there’s a gulf wider than the ocean and an entire timeline between them. The trauma they’ve been through over each other in their lives isn’t just going to magically go away because they’ve found each other here and now. “We’ll get there, Steve.” He reaches his hand across the space between them, palm up, and smiles when Steve takes it and their fingers twine together. 

“Where are we going first?” 

Bucky furrows his brows as he glances over at Steve. “I gave you my tablet with the itinerary literally open for you to add anywhere you wanted to go to the list like two days ago?” 

“Oh.” Steve ducks his chin, pink staining his cheeks. “I thought you just wanted me to pack it. It’s in your duffel.” 

“We’re going to Chicago. I know you’ve been before when you were touring but I want to take you to the Art Institute.” He knows how incredible the art they have is, but only because he killed somebody there once, in the 90s. Some politician that had been close to exposing the Red Room and Hydra. It had been easy enough. Dressed as a student, he’d walked right in and roamed around taking ‘notes’ about the art until the guy had shown up. Too bad the gloves Bucky had been wearing when he enthusiastically shook the guy’s hand had been coated in an experimental, fast acting contact poison. It had all looked like an accident, at least long enough for Bucky to vanish, back to the arms of his handlers yet again. But Steve doesn’t need to know the details of it all; not yet at least. “And I’ve never seen the city as a tourist.” He squinted at the clock on the dash. “Should get there around six this evening. We’ll have time to check into a hotel somewhere and maybe go do something in the city tonight and then do the Art Institute tomorrow.” 

“That sounds really fun, Buck. I’m excited.” Steve flashes him a bright grin. “No camping tonight?” His tone is light, teasing. 

“Regardless of the fact that we can both defend ourselves _well_ , I’d rather not try to find camping in the middle of a post-apocalyptic city. Hotels when we’re in the city, campgrounds if we’re at a national park.” He was wary enough about leaving their vehicle unguarded, even though they’d strung curtains across all the windows in the back and across the space behind their seats to separate the sleeping area from the front. “You can change the music if you want.” He’d put together a road trip playlist and that’s what he’s had on but maybe Steve would prefer to listen to something from when they were growing up instead of the indie music Bucky has playing. 

“No, this is good,” Steve assures him. “I like it. What’s it called?” 

“Press Restart by Walk The Moon.” Yet another one he’d discovered in making his depression playlists after Steve had come back old but as sad as the lyrics are, there’s also a hopefulness to it that he loves. So he makes playlists for everything. It’s soothing. 

Steve rolls his shoulders, leaning down to grab a canvas bag from the floorboard. “Are you hungry? We’ve been on the road for about three hours now and I know my breakfast is wearing off.” He pulls a Ziploc out of the bag and untangles their hands to open it. 

“I could eat.” Bucky shifts in his seat. His ass is starting to go numb but he’d rather wait to stop until they need to get gas which won’t be for about another hour. They’re kind of in the middle of nowhere anyway. “What do you have?” 

“This is cinnamon apple chips.” Steve pulls a few from the bag and drops them into Bucky’s palm. “Sage helped me with getting a stash of snacks that you can have. There’s more stuff for actual meals in the back.” 

“Steve,” Bucky’s breath catches in his throat. It’s such a simple action but it screams loud and clear _I care_. “Thank you.” He pops the food into his mouth. 

“Well, I wasn’t about to let you go hungry. Especially if you’re the one doing the driving.” He pauses to chew and holds the bag out for Bucky to grab a few more. “So tell me about the future.” 

“Like how your life was here?” Bucky glances in the rearview as a diesel comes up behind them, almost riding their tail. “Jeez, just pass. There’s a whole open lane.” There’s barely any traffic yet. 

“No, like. The _future_. I mean I learned about some things in 2012 but that was well over a decade ago in this timeline. Tell me about it.” 

“I mean, I probably don’t have the best idea considering I missed the past five years but Shuri taught me a bunch of stuff she deemed necessary to know about the future when I was in Wakanda.” At Steve’s interested hum, he continues. “To start off- vines.” He relaxes his grip on the steering wheel as the diesel finally cuts over into the free lane and blows past them. “I don’t really know how to explain it without showing you but basically it was an app for little funny videos. We watched them for hours when I was having bad days. Got my mind off things. I’ll show you on YouTube tonight. You know what YouTube is, right?” 

“Yeah.” 

“Alright. There’s also um,” he sucks his lower lip between his teeth, thinking. “dancing. It’s real different now than it was when we were young but it’s not bad. Well… at least not all of it. This is called the Milly Rock.” He demonstrates the motion with his right hand. “I’ll have you know I learned all the trendy dances back in 2018.” 

Steve snickers. “Of course you did.” 

“We’ll go dancing sometime. I’ll prove it. I can do a _mean_ juju on that beat.” 

“…What?” 

***

They pull into Chicago a little after 6:00 after hitting heavy traffic getting into the city. Bucky has the AI on his phone running navigation for him to the hotel he had booked ahead. His entire body aches from driving all day and his voice is hoarse. After entertaining Steve with things Shuri had taught him, he’d switched over to actually recapping him on historical events from the time that Steve went into the ice forward until the snap. They have a room booked at the Palmer House hotel right near Millennium Park and the Art Institute. 

Steve damn near flinches at the price of the valet parking but Bucky just hands over the key to the waiting attendant. They have a bottomless credit card and he damn well intends to relish being able to afford things. His spine cracks loudly as he steps out of the vehicle and stretches, groaning. Steve has already gotten both of their duffle bags when Bucky rounds the back of the vehicle. “Dibs on first shower.” 

“You look exhausted, Buck.” Steve smiles at him and shuts the van door. “We can spend the evening in if you want, we don’t have to go out and do things tonight.” 

“No, it’s good. I’ll catch a second wind with a shower and a change of clothes and there’s a restaurant here we can grab dinner from. I wanna see the Skydeck at night.” Bucky takes his bag from Steve. He’d booked this hotel in particular because of the restaurant, a Freshii that had food light enough for him to handle just fine. 

Steve sways closer to him as they walk into the lobby. “It smells weird in here.” 

“Hotels are like that.” Bucky grins at him and stops at the front desk. “Hi, I have a reservation for Barnes.” 

“ID please?” 

He shifts his bag to tug his wallet out of his pocket and slides the card across the counter. Sam had handed a stack of identification papers to him this morning, things Sharon had pulled strings to get. The woman’s eyes widen when she reads the name on it and her gaze snaps up to dart between him and Steve but she just swallows and asks for a credit card. And that’s it, she hands him a tiny envelope with two key cards inside and their room number written on the back. 

“Enjoy your stay in Chicago.” 

“Thanks, we will.” Bucky smiles at her and tugs on Steve’s elbow. “Let’s go, I can feel the hot water already.” 

Their room is on the third floor, a spacious suite with two queen sized beds and a little sitting area and kitchenette. Bucky dumps his bag on the floor at the foot of one of the beds and flops face first into the mattress with a groan. “I’m never moving again.” 

“I thought you wanted to shower,” Steve teases. 

Bucky lifts his head to watch the blond as he peers out of the window. “You make a compelling argument. Also the Skydeck. And dinner. Ugh.” A shower really will feel nice. And fresh clothes. He just has to convince his achy body to want to move. “Do you want first shower actually?” 

“I’d rather wait until after we get back. What is the Skydeck?” 

“A bad idea, probably.” He’s over the fear of heights but this is still pushing it. Whatever. He pushes himself back to a standing position. “Alright. I’m gonna shower. Do you wanna use the toilet before I go in there?” He grabs his bag and unzips it, rooting through the clothes. 

“Mm, yeah. Probably should. I’ll just be a minute and then you can have it.” Steve disappears into the bathroom, closing the door behind him. 

He debates between outfits but eventually settles on a maroon turtleneck and thick tac pants. When Steve comes out of the bathroom, he grabs his stack of clothes and toiletries and slips into the room. The water heats in the time it takes him to strip and he hisses as he steps into the shower, the water hitting the back of his neck. Shit, he’s tense. 

As much as he’d love to stay and luxuriate in the hot water, they don’t have an endless amount of time. So he scrubs shampoo through his hair and soap across his body while he’s waiting on the conditioner to soak in. He’s out of the water in less than ten minutes, one towel around his waist and another wrapped around his head. 

And he forgot underwear. Of course he did. 

“Shit,” he mumbles. If he had chosen to wear sweatpants it wouldn’t be a problem but tac pants are a bitch about chafing. And he shouldn’t feel weird about Steve seeing him in a towel- there was no such thing as privacy in the army. But he doesn’t really know how to act in this new dynamic between them- this mutual knowledge of feelings shared but nothing happening other than hand holding. And there’s also his arm. And the scars. And his sunken stomach and ribs protruding, reminiscent of years in Brooklyn with not enough food. He’d just put on the sweater but he has to wait for the water to drain out of his arm first unless he wants the sleeve soaked. He breathes out slow, squeezing his eyes shut. It’s fine, it’s not like Steve will care. He could call through the door and ask Steve to leave the room but that’s just asking for questions. Better just to dart out and grab them and hope he’s quick enough that Steve doesn’t notice him. 

Of course it’s his luck that Steve looks up from his phone the minute the bathroom door cracks open and Bucky steps out. His face flares bright pink even as his jaw drops and his gaze slips down to Bucky’s bare chest. But when his eyes find the mess of scarring around the arm, his expression crumples. 

“Buck,” his voice is choked, like he’s about to start crying. 

Bucky swallows hard, avoiding Steve’s gaze as he moves over to his bed, grabbing his duffel roughly. But that just exposes his back and there’s not an inch of skin there that isn’t scarred. Whatever skin didn’t get torn up in his fall from the train is crisscrossed with angry scars from bullets, burns, and the scalpels of the sadistic Hydra scientists who took great pleasure in cutting him open just to see how far they could go before his body couldn’t stitch itself back together anymore. He knows Steve is hovering behind him, staring. “You don’t-”

“Do they hurt?” 

“Not anymore.” He ducks his chin to his chest, his hand resting on top of his bag. It was true, for the most part. Maybe they still ached but he barely noticed it. Pain was white noise. “Look, I know they’re… gross. And a lot to take in. I didn’t want you to have to see.” 

“ _What_?”

He sucks his lower lip into his mouth and twists to look at Steve. There’s still a flush across his cheeks but his eyes are bright with anger. Bucky swallows. “You shouldn’t have to deal with-”

“Who told you they’re gross?” Steve interrupts. “Was it _him_?”

“No… it’s just a fact, Steve. I know what they look like.” And he knows that even if he couldn’t have prevented the ones from the fall, he hadn’t fought back when they started experimenting on him. He’d lain there on the table, panicking but unable to bring himself to move. 

Steve’s hands come up to cup his jaw. “You’re _not_ gross. Not to me.” 

“Steve-”

“No. Let me… I wanna show you something. Hang on,” he releases Bucky to dart over to the other bed, to fish around in his bag until he comes up with a permanent marker. Then he hesitates, “I mean, if it’s okay. I’d like to show you what I see. Is it okay if I touch?” 

“Um,” Bucky’s brain almost whites out at the thought of Steve’s hands on him. He swallows hard. “I guess?” 

Steve blushes hard. “Okay. Just, uh, just turn around and I’ll…” he uncaps the marker, waving it in a little circle. 

“Right.” Bucky stares at him, their eyes meeting and then darting away and meeting again. Finally he swallows and turns back around, folding his arms across his chest. He jumps at the first light brush of Steve’s fingertips against his back, so soft they’re barely there but it sends a jolt of heat down his spine anyway. 

Steve trails his pointer finger up Bucky’s spine, cutting over to trace around the mark of a bullet wound just below his right shoulder blade. “I know this one.” He pulls his hand away to draw around the scar with the permanent marker. “We were in that Hydra base in France and I thought they were all down but you heard the gun before I did and shoved me out of the way and took the bullet yourself. I was so mad at you.” 

“I’d do it again.” It would have without a doubt been a heart shot if it had hit Steve. 

“I’d be mad at you again.” The marker starts to trace a line down a jagged, ropy scar that stretches from the bullet wound to the small of his back. “I don’t know this one.” 

Bucky swallows, “Train.” Steve’s hand flinches, not enough to mess up whatever he’s drawing but enough that Bucky feels it. “It wasn’t your fault.” 

Steve hums and the marker veers up, along a surgical scar and ending in another circle around the scar from a stab wound to his left kidney. “Okay, I’m finished. C’mere.” He grabs Bucky’s hand and spins him, tugging him toward the bathroom where he positions him in front of the mirror. “Look.” 

Bucky twists to gaze at his back in the mirror and his heart clenches. “Is that…?”

“It’s Pisces,” Steve confirms. “You taught me how to find it in the sky but I see it everywhere now. It’s you. And that’s all I see in your scars. Just you.” 

“Steve,” Bucky’s voice breaks. He turns back around to look at Steve and they stare at each other. “Do you mean that?” 

“Always.” 

Bucky shudders out a breath and reaches up, tracing the lines of Steve’s face. The slightest rub of stubble beneath the pads of his fingers. Steve’s breath catches quietly in his throat and Bucky’s heart thuds hard against his rib cage. “I love you.” Just being able to say the words brings a lump to his throat. Years and years of biting them back and now he can say them _whenever he wants_.

“I know.” Steve echoes the words Bucky had said to him in that hospital room with a small smile. His gaze flicks down to Bucky’s mouth and stays there. 

Bucky’s hands are still on Steve’s face, one of his thumbs idly tracing the corner of his lips, the one’s Bucky has dreamed about kissing since he was twelve. And somehow Steve has shuffled them backwards until Bucky’s ass is pressed against the counter and Steve is caging him there, big hands flat on the marble to let him lean into Bucky’s space. 

The phone rings in the other room. 

Bucky groans and drops his forehead to Steve’s shoulder. 

“Ignore it,” one of Steve’s hands moves up to grip Bucky’s hip tightly. 

“Can’t. That’s Sam’s ringtone. He probably thinks we wrecked and died already and he definitely will if I ignore his calls.” He sighs and pushes Steve away gently. It’s better this way, even if his stupid heart it still screaming for him to kiss Steve. He does want to take it slow. Kissing Steve in a bathroom wearing only a towel is not taking things slow. He snags his clothes off the counter and turns to head into the bedroom. “Just stay in here while I get dressed, okay?” 

Steve has his face in his hands, his hip propped against the counter but he gives his muffled consent and Bucky shuts the door behind him. He grabs his phone and answers it just before the call would have cut off. “You have the world’s worst timing, Wilson.” Wedging the device between his ear and his shoulder, he snatches a pair of briefs out of his bag and starts to tug them on. 

“Oh? Sorry for making sure you weren’t dead in a ditch on the side of the interstate somewhere, I guess.” 

“You should be. Hang on,” he drops the phone to the bed for as long as it takes to pull the sweater over his head. “Okay, I’m back. You can come out now, Steve!” 

“I’m bisexual,” Steve shouts from the bathroom. 

“I guess you made it to Chicago safely and all?” 

“Yeah,” Bucky tugs his pants on as Steve emerges from the other room and flops down on the foot of Bucky’s bed. “Some traffic getting into the city but the drive was pretty good for the most part. We’re at the hotel now.” 

“That’s good,” Sam hums. “So are you staying in or going out?” 

“Out. And I really should let you go because we’re about to go down to dinner.” He hesitates, pulling a small handgun out of his bag. The anxious, paranoid part of him wants to be armed to the teeth, but what he really wants is to just live. Like a regular Joe that doesn’t think there’s a monster around every damn corner. He drops the gun back in the bag. 

“Alright, sounds good. Just let me know when you’re getting back on the road, okay?” 

“Will do.” Bucky hangs up and tosses the phone onto the mattress. He pulls the towel from his head and grimaces as his hair falls limp and wet against his cheek. Hopefully it’ll dry before they finish eating because walking twenty minutes to the Sears Tower in the cold with wet hair isn’t on his list of things he particularly wants to do. He grabs the bottle of curl product from the side pocket of his bag and squeezes some out into his palm to start scrunching it into his hair. “You might want to wear something warmer, sweetheart.” 

“You know there was a time I hated every time you said that to me.” 

“Not anymore?” Bucky smirks at him. 

“Music to my ears, honestly.” 

***

“So let me get this straight,” Steve teases, “you want to go one hundred and three stories up and stand in a little glass box with a _glass floor_ to see the city?” 

“Yep.” 

“Bucky, you _hate_ heights.” 

“Not anymore.” He tilts his head back to look up, up, up, at the building looming in front of them. It’s taller than he anticipated. “It’s fine, Steve. You’re not scared are you?” 

“I literally fought a guy on the outside of a moving plane that was trying its best to throw me off just a few months ago. Heights aren’t my thing and you know it.” 

Bucky presses his lips together and blows a breath out through his nose. “You did _what_?”

“Uh.” The street lamps are bright enough to illuminate Steve’s wide, nervous eyes as they walk up to the tower. “I figured you already knew about that. It was during the whole… Valkyrie thing. Couple’a Hydra agents tried to fly off with the bombs so I had to stop them.” 

Bucky waits until they’re in the elevator to round on Steve, narrowing his eyes. There’s some video playing on a TV monitor about how tall the building is but he really doesn’t care about that right now. “You’re done with that kind of reckless shit. _Never_ again. Got it?” 

“Well, hopefully I don’t end up on a plane full of bombs again but-”

“Never. Again.” His gaze drops to the bob of Steve’s throat as he swallows hard and nods, reaching for Bucky’s hand. “Life isn’t all about fighting. It can’t be.” 

“I don’t know how else to live,” Steve says, low, his gaze searching Bucky’s face. “But if it means I never have to lose you again, then I’ll do my best to learn.” 

“One day at a time,” Bucky smiles as the doors slide open to the 103rd floor. “That’s how we live.” 

They step out into the viewing area, windows directly to their left offering a fantastic view of the city even from a distance. Bucky tugs on Steve’s hand, pulling him over to look out. They’re the only ones up here other than the workers- probably the sudden resurrection of half the world’s population cut down on tourism. Everyone else is too busy looking for their friends and family or spending time with them. From the windows, it’s not that different from being on a plane, looking out over the city lights. It’s a clear night so they can see all the way to the horizon, the lights stretching on for miles and miles. 

“Oh wow,” Steve breathes, and he looks captivated when Bucky turns to look at him. Lips parted and eyes wide. 

“Ready to go out on the actual deck?” Bucky indicates the glass boxes that stretch out, away from the tower. His breath is shallow in his chest, heart thudding just a little harder than normal with the anticipation of stepping out over that precipice of nothing. It’s fine, he’s fine. They’re absolutely not going to break the glass with their combined weight and plummet to their deaths. 

“Ready if you are.” Steve smirks at him like the little shit he is. 

“You know what-” Bucky rolls his eyes and strides toward the deck, his chin high. Steve still has hold of his hand, following close at his side. But when they get right to the edge, where solid floor turns to glass, Bucky’s steps falter. He breathes out through pursed lips and leans forward to peer down. Down, down, down. Oh _god_. It’s a long fucking way down. “Um.” 

Steve squeezes his hand gently and steps forward, out onto the platform. “It’s safe, Buck. I promise.” 

“Right. Just…” he swallows hard and inches forward. He’s not scared, damn it. The only thing happening here is healthy survival instincts. “I’m not afraid.” 

“I’ll never let you fall. Not again.” Steve releases his hand to pull Bucky to his chest, wrapping his arms tightly around his back. He inches the two of them backwards, further away from safety and out onto the glass. “Don’t look down.” 

Bucky fists his hands in Steve’s hoodie, his gaze trained on the hollow of his throat. “I am not afraid.” 

“It’s okay if you are,” Steve presses their foreheads together. “It means you’re human. You’re _you_. But the view is pretty incredible, if you want to look around.” 

“You’re not looking at the view, you’re looking at me,” Bucky mutters. 

“Who says you’re not the view?” 

“You’re a little shit.” But he breaks into laughter and takes a deep breath, lifting his head. They stay pressed together, chest to chest as they look out at the skyline, glittering gold lights and silhouettes of buildings. 

“Did you guys want a picture?” 

Bucky turns to look at the attendant. He’s probably not any older than nineteen, with the same exhausted, haunted look in his eyes that Sage has, but there’s a forced smile on his face as he holds up the camera looped around his neck. “Yeah, that would be great. Thank you.” 

“I can take a few with your phone too, if you want,” the guy offers. “I mean, technically it’s against policy and you’re supposed to take those yourself because it takes up too much time but there’s no one else here so….”

“I really appreciate it,” Bucky fishes his phone out of his pocket and opens the camera, passing it over to the guy. He’s careful to keep his gaze up, not acknowledging the open air they’re standing over. 

“Did you want to pose?” 

Moving around means inevitably having to look down and just the thought has him locking his arms around Steve’s waist. “You know what? I’m good right where I am.” 

***

_Day Two_

They have a slow start the next morning with both of them worn out from the drive. Even Steve sleeps in, staring blearily at the coffee maker in the kitchenette when Bucky stumbles out of the bedroom at nine. Bucky snickers at him. “Your hair looks like an angry hedgehog.” 

“You’re one to talk.” Steve rubs his eyes. “I don’t know how to work this.” 

Bucky squints at the machine but it’s not familiar. Sure, he could probably figure it out if he put any effort into it, but he really doesn’t want to. “Fuck it, there’s a Starbucks downstairs.” So they get coffee in their pajamas and bring it back up to the room, curling up on the couch with it to watch the morning news. Bucky ends up with his head pillowed on Steve’s thigh and Steve’s fingers stroking gentle through his hair until he dozes off again. 

They don’t make it to the art museum until after lunch. The closer they get, the more excited Steve gets, reading animatedly about the exhibits from the webpage he’d pulled up on his phone. Bucky can’t really say that art gives him any deep, profound feelings. He can appreciate when it looks good but it doesn’t leave him breathless and silent in awe the way that it affects Steve. But watching those emotions play out across Steve’s face as they go from exhibit to exhibit is art enough for him. It leaves him just as awestruck now as it did when they were dumb teenagers that snuck into the Met. 

“I wish I had a sketchbook with me,” Steve breathes, staring up at Nighthawks. His fingers are twitching at his side. Bucky pulls out his phone and searches for art stores nearby; he can’t magically pull one out of his pocket for Steve to capture this moment but he can damn well take him to stock up on whatever supplies he might need before they leave the city. 

Bucky can’t bring himself to go into the room where he killed that politician and Steve doesn’t ask, just squeezes his hand and says they can skip that exhibit. It’s still a good six hours of roaming the building before they finally leave. There’s a big art store right across the corner from their hotel so Bucky takes Steve in there and lets him pick out whatever he wants before they go back to the hotel to get dinner and spend the evening in. 

“What’s next on the agenda?” Steve is sprawled across his bed on his stomach, idly doodling in one of his new sketchbooks, just getting used to the feeling of drawing again. 

Bucky had debated staying in Chicago longer, but the city was in barely contained chaos and he wanted to get away from it, so they were heading out in the morning. “Badlands National Park, in South Dakota. It’s another twelve hour drive but I think we can make it by tomorrow night if we leave early again. Unless you’d rather stay here a few more days?” He brushes a loose strand of hair away from his face, tucking it behind his ear. 

“No, it’s okay.” Steve smiles at him. “I’ve been to Chicago before and it’s not so far away from New York that we can’t come back again at a later time if we want. When it’s calmed down some.” 

“I…” he hesitates, chewing on his lower lip. “Steve, I don’t know if I want to keep living in New York.” 

Steve flips his sketchbook closed and pushes himself into a sitting position. His expression is serious, but not angry. “Okay… why not?” 

“I mean, it’s fucking cold for one thing. I hate the cold.” Steve nods and it spurs him on. “I haven’t lived in New York since I left Brooklyn in 1943, other than the past two weeks which was more like a visit than anything. And… and New York to me feels like being stuck in a vacuum, like I’m a ghost trying to fit into a life I can’t live. I’d like the opportunity to be able to just live without the compulsion to be someone I’m not anymore. I want to make new memories, good ones, that won’t be overshadowed by the past.” 

“So where do you want to live?” 

“I’m not sure. I haven’t really thought that far ahead.” He’d enjoyed living in Wakanda but that was tainted now with the memories of sunny afternoons and breathtaking skies at night with a very different Steve. Europe was too haunted from the war and being the Winter Soldier. He kind of wanted to stay in America now that he was pardoned. And he had friends here now. Family. 

“That’s okay. We can look for somewhere while we’re traveling.” 

That easily? “You aren’t upset?” 

Steve smiles at him, reaching across the narrow space between their beds to hook his pinky finger around Bucky’s. “New York is full of ghosts for me too. I haven’t even had the chance to reconcile it looking different than it did in ’43. My home’s always been wherever you are. Whether that be Brooklyn, or the front, or this hotel room. I go where you go. It doesn’t really matter to me where that is.”


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> um? don't do drugs kids..... i used my limited experience in writing this chapter if i got it wrong just tell me or not im too sleepy to care at this point. tried to give a little bit of world building too but this is a character heavy fic more than it is anything else and i don't really know how to write post apocalypse so i just added in whatever felt right To Me. also if you live in the midwest please don't be offended ive never been there but i feel like it'll be the first to collapse in the apocalypse because it just has that type of cursed energy im sorry im writing this at 3:30 am and running on nothing but coffee because it be like that sometimes. anyway yea so here's this. enjoy. 
> 
> also a HUGE thank you to zee @comradebucky on twitter for the help i truly don't think this chapter or the last one or probably the entire rest of this fic will exist without her my ride or die my home skillet BISCOTT ily

The Midwest was still just as boring as it had been in 1943. 

They’re somewhere in southern Minnesota, Steve thinks but it’s been endless fields for about six hours now so who can tell? They might have proved fascinating to him once upon a time, to the boy who grew up seeing nothing of the horizon beyond the brick wall his bedroom window faced- if he was lucky enough to have a window. But in reality seeing the horizon for miles on every side is a bit dizzying. And boring. “I’m bored.” He has a bag full of art supplies, mostly untested but the roads are too bumpy for him to even hope to be able to sketch anything. 

“I’m aware.” Bucky glances at him with a wry smile. “You’ve said so, multiple times over the past hundred miles.” 

Anxiety shivers down Steve’s spine, healthy lungs struggling to take in air. Because even with the fond exasperation in Bucky’s voice, the truth is that he doesn’t know just how far he can push. How far the brunet will let him needle him, taking entertainment out of annoying him the way he had spent his childhood doing. But if he pushes Bucky _too far_ , if he _truly_ irritates him, maybe Bucky will decide that he doesn’t really want Steve around anymore. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be-”

“Don’t gotta apologize,” Bucky laughs, reaching over to flick Steve’s bicep lightly and just like that his tense muscles relax, his breath coming easier. “It’s… nice. You’re a spoiled little shit, but in a good way. I hope you never have to lose that.” 

“I am not spoiled.” 

“You totally are. But it’s good, like I said.” He flexes his metal fingers around the steering wheel and switches lanes to get out from behind a lagging car. “I like being able to baby the people I care about and you damn well know it, Sweetheart.” 

Steve flushes hot at the pet name, shifting in his seat. Not an hour has gone by since that moment in the bathroom that he hasn’t thought about it. About how close he’d gotten to finally kissing Bucky. He’d thought maybe they might continue where they left off when Bucky’d gotten off the phone. But the other man hasn’t even indicated it’s on his mind at all, let alone instigated a repeat and Steve won’t pressure him. He’s not the one who had gotten his heart ripped to shreds and stomped on repeatedly. At least not the way Bucky has, betrayed by the hands of his Steve. Whatever pace Bucky wants to set with their relationship, that’s the pace they’ll progress at and not any faster. 

“We can stop in the next real town if you want,” Bucky offers, “we don’t _have_ to get to Badlands tonight, we’re not on a strict schedule or anything. There’s just nothing really… here.” He waves his hand out the window, at the endless stretch of nothing. 

It could almost be one of Natasha’s beloved horror movies. Untended fields grown wild with plants that are quickly dying to the frost. The few buildings they’ve passed uncared for, windows shattered and doors missing. Whatever communities might have lived here are gone, forced to leave for survival or left here to die when the gasoline was gone and the winter snows trapped them in. Helpless pleas spray painted blood across sun bleached brick- _Where are the Avenging Gods you had faith in when we starve to death?_ And whoever might have returned when the Snap was reversed is nowhere in sight either. 

Steve doesn’t much like Minnesota. Or wherever they are. “Can we safely cross the Midwest off the list of potential to live places, then?” 

“Oh, god.” Bucky groans. “It was never even on the list. I’m not that masochistic. I managed alright on a farm in Wakanda but I was still in spitting distance of the city.” 

“You can take the boy out of-”

“Yep. Anyway I was thinking on it some this morning and I think it would be nice to stay close to the ocean somewhere, at least.” 

Steve hums. Warm. Ocean. City or near to it. “How about Los Angeles?” He’d hung out in Hollywood back in the day, making the Captain America movies and rubbing elbows a few times with the stars of the silver screen. Bucky had bitched for an entire year after learning that Steve had had a dinner date with Ingrid Bergman. He’d blown it, of course, flushing and muttering and unable to meet her gaze for most of the evening. Funny how he’d never had trouble drumming up clientele in the dark of the Brooklyn docks, flirty words spilling from his lips like honey. Tempting even the most close-fisted man to slip a few bills into his hand. But when it came to women? Hopeless. 

Duality of man and all that. 

“Absolutely not.” 

“What happened to _I should be in the movies, Steve. I belong with the stars, Steve, look at this face. I could be the next Cary Grant, Steve._ , huh?” 

Bucky scoffs. “I was always better looking than Cary Grant anyway.” 

“I mean, _I_ could have told you that.” 

“And Los Angeles ain’t what it was. Just our luck, we’d end up neighbors with James fucking Charles,” his voice pitches up a few octaves. “Hi Sister Steve, I saw you getting your mail and I wanted to see if you would film a video with me.” 

“I’m kind of afraid to ask.” 

“You should be.” 

***

It’s full dark by the time they get to Badlands and the van headlights glint off a tall fence and a sign that reads _National park closed indefinitely due to circumstances_.

“Huh,” Bucky leans forward, squinting like that will change anything. “They didn’t say that on the website.” 

“Now what?” Steve shifts in his seat. His ass hurts and he really needs to piss. “Do we turn around and go back to the nearest town?” 

Bucky looks over, eyebrows raised. “Alright, who are you and hat did you do with Steve ‘I will commit a felony to get into the US Army because I feel like it’ Rogers?” He releases his seatbelt and pushes his sweater sleeves up to pull a lock pick out of the hidden panel on his arm. “I came to see the Badlands and no locked gate is going to stop me.” 

It startles a laugh out of Steve and he scrambles out of the van, following Bucky to the gate. “Weren’t you always the one telling me to stop doing dumb shit like this? I’m a little ashamed that it wasn’t my idea to break in here.” It really is the type of classic move he would pull. 

The bolt clicks open and Bucky lifts his head, flicking his hair away from his eyes with a jerk of his chin. “How the turns have tabled, huh?” He grunts and shoves the gate open with a horrible shriek of rusted metal. “No alarms going off, that’s good. Alright,” he presses the bolt into Steve’s palm. “I’ll drive the van through and you shut the gate and lock it behind us. I don’t really think that many people will be driving around since we’re in the middle of fucking nowhere but just in case.” 

Steve does as he’s told and then gets back in the vehicle. They drive around for about ten minutes, trying to find the actual campgrounds that are scattered around the park but it’s dark and they’re both tired so eventually they end up parking the van in a grassy flat area among the towering hills. They’d spent the good majority of the war without access to bathroom facilities so this is nothing. At least they have a comfortable bed waiting for them. 

Steve wanders away to relieve his bladder while Bucky is opening up the back of the van, digging out the bright LED lanterns. When he returns, the brunet is pacing by the vehicle. 

“What’s that?” Steve nods at the little baggy that Bucky is tossing back and forth from hand to hand. 

Bucky hesitates, “I got it from Shuri. It’s… well, it’s not marijuana, exactly. It’s something they grow in Wakanda but this strain is modified so that enhanced individuals are affected. We don’t have to if you don’t want to, but… I’ve had it before. It’s fun. Relaxing. And there’s not a soul around to kick up a fuss if it’s illegal or not.” 

“It works on _me_?” What he would have given for some of that after the train. After the ice. After his apartment in Brooklyn and the death and his near suicide. “Are you sure?” 

“Yeah. I, uh, there were a few times when _he_ was around. It worked.” 

“Shit,” Steve gasps, leaning back against the side of the van. “Can I have the first hit?” 

Bucky grins at him and pulls a little blue glass pipe and a lighter out of his sweatshirt pocket. “Grab a few blankets, let’s sit on the roof.” He grabs one of the lanterns and wedges his boot on top of a tire, boosting himself onto the top of the vehicle. 

Steve picks out the huge sunflower yellow comforter Bucky had picked out and a thick, fuzzy fleece blanket and tosses them on top of the vehicle so he has his hands free to climb up. It’s a mild night, but the temperature is still low enough for him to feel the chill deep in his bones. Bucky is sitting cross legged, lower lip sucked into his mouth as he carefully packs the pipe. 

“You used one of these before?” 

“No,” Steve drapes the fleece blanket around his shoulders, sitting in front of Bucky. “But I saw Tony using one. It’s not an asthma cigarette but it’s not that complicated.” 

“Alright then.” Bucky lifts the mouthpiece of the pipe to Steve’s lips, carefully gripping it between his metal fingers. He presses his flesh thumb down on the lighter, touching the flame to the pipe and Steve inhales the smoke slowly. 

It tastes almost fruity and it’s a hell of a lot smoother in his throat than anything he smoked growing up. But that might be down to not having asthma anymore. He leans back from the pipe and Bucky flips it around, bringing it to his own mouth to inhale. Their enhanced lungs let them hold the smoke for a lot longer than they could have otherwise and it becomes an unspoken competition to see who will crack and exhale first. Steve wins, making Bucky break into laughter by crossing his eyes and puffing his cheeks out. He breathes out his own lungful easily, right into Bucky’s face. “I win.” 

“This time,” Bucky coughs and hands the pipe and lighter to Steve to lean his torso over the edge of the van. When he sits back up, he has his water bottle in hand, taking a deep drink from it. “Shit.” 

“You good?” Steve lights the pipe again, taking another deep hit. Just the anticipation of being able to relax and forget and just have fun for a few hours is its own high. His hands are nearly shaking with it. 

“Yeah, just not used to holding it that long.” Bucky grabs the comforter and hauls it over his lap, smirking when Steve tries to exhale a smoke ring and fails, terribly. “Gimme that.” He inhales light, short, and blows out a perfect smoke heart. 

“Show off.” 

“What can I say? I still got it.” Bucky smiles bright as the goddamn sun and Steve’s breath catches in his throat. His head is just fuzzy enough with the beginning effects of the drug to make his gaze drag over the line of Bucky’s throat, the bow of his reddened lips, and by the time his eyes meet the other man’s, Bucky is watching him with a dark, hooded expression. The orange glow of the flame reflects in his dilated pupils as he inhales again, slow. They eye each other silently as Bucky holds the smoke in his lungs. He sets the pipe and lighter to the side and leans forward; his left hand cups Steve’s jaw, thumb pressing on his lower lip with enough pressure to make his mouth drop open as Bucky leans in. A mere inch of space between them when Bucky breathes out, exhaling a stream of smoke into Steve’s mouth. It’s a barely there scratch against his lungs when he breathes it in. 

“How do you feel?” Bucky whispers. 

“I-” Steve’s heart is racing in his chest, pounding against his rib cage like it’s trying to beat its way out of his body. His breath stutters on the inhale, his gaze darting uncontrollably between Bucky’s eyes and his mouth. _Like I want to kiss you so bad I can’t breathe. Like I’m so in love with you I might die._ Like he’s terrified of making the first move, terrified of upsetting the balance, terrified of losing this. “It’s working.” 

“Good,” Bucky pulls back, putting space between them again. Steve feels every goddamn inch of the distance. “We’ll take a few more to be sure.” He pulls out the zip bag again and turns his attention to repacking the pipe. 

Steve swallows hard, drawing his knees up to his chest. He tips his head back, mapping out the constellations in the thousands of glimmering stars above them. The ones Bucky- _his_ Bucky, but always Bucky- had taught him all those years ago. The moon is bright and full, silvery light highlighting across Bucky’s face and hair, wild with curls, when Steve looks back to him. His fingers ache for a pencil, to put image to paper but he aches just as much to stay right here in this moment forever. Bucky doesn’t say anything when their gazes meet, extending the pipe and lighter silently. Steve takes them and sets them aside. Even after all these years, even not being from the same timeline, they still sync their breathing. He doesn’t give Bucky the chance to pull his hand away, tangling their fingers together tightly. 

He hasn’t believed in God in a long time, but he’ll say a thousand Hail Mary’s and fucking _beg_ for grace, for mercy. Because he can’t lose this, can’t lose him. Not again. But Bucky is holding back and Steve knows why, he does. 

“Your breathing changed,” Bucky’s low voice breaks the silence. “Tell me what you’re thinking.” 

“You’ll judge me.” Steve whispers, looking away, gaze dropping down to their joined hands instead, afraid the truth is written all over his face. 

“I’ll never do that, Steve. I’m _finally_ here, I _finally_ have a chance with you when I thought I was going to be alone forever. I won’t give it up for anything. I _want_ to know every upset you have, every hurt. I want to tell you how I’m feeling, when I’m feeling it. Because it was the miscommunication that ruined everything for me before and I won’t let it happen again. You don’t _have_ to talk if you don’t want to. But if you do, I’m all ears.” 

“Do you wish I was him?” Steve blurts out in a rush, his eyes squeezed shut. He’s feeling the drug just enough that it makes his head spin a little, his arms and legs full of static. “Do you… wish I was the man who almost died on the helicarrier for you? The one that betrayed his team and the government? How can you… love me when I never did those things for you?” Let alone the fact that the only thing he had done for Bucky in his timeline is let him be killed. He nearly flinches at the rush of memory, vivid as the moment it happened. The thud of the body hitting the floor. 

“ _Steve_ ,” Bucky’s voice cracks. “I won’t- I won’t lie and say I don’t miss him. It’s such a fucked up situation because you’re here and you’re right in front of me and you’re the same person but different. I do miss him as he was before everything happened. But I don’t wish you were him. And if I was given the opportunity I wouldn’t trade this to have him back. Look at me,” he brings his free hand to Steve’s chin, forcing his gaze up. There’s tears shimmering in his eyes and his lower lip trembles. “Maybe it makes me stupidly selfish, but I am so _goddamn_ glad that I don’t have to look at you and watch you close yourself off so far away that you’ve forgotten who you are. I’m glad that if I see you shirtless I don’t have to look at a scar on your stomach where I put a bullet or a scar on your shoulder where I put a knife. Because I’ve never hurt you and I get this opportunity where I don’t have to see evidence that I have and I don’t have to _hate_ myself for it.” 

“Bucky, that wasn’t your fault.” 

“I know,” Bucky gives a sorry approximation of a smile. “Neither is it your fault what happened to me in your timeline. That doesn’t stop the guilt though, does it?” He lets out a long breath. “You aren’t the man on the helicarrier and you aren’t the man who betrayed his team. But you’re the one that’s barely been in the future for a few months and still made the choice to jump even further ahead, to a completely different timeline, to a post-apocalyptic world on a _sliver_ of hope that you might be able to get to me. That’s no small thing, Sweetheart. And for the record, I figured out I was stupid in love with you when I was eleven years old. It’s not going away, not ever.” 

He doesn’t even realize there are tears streaking down his cheeks until Bucky gently brushes them away. “Thank you,” he whispers. 

“Don’t gotta thank me.” 

“I know. I want to.” He darts his tongue out to lick his lips. “I love you, too, James Buchanan Barnes. God help me, I do.” 

***

They finish what’s in the pipe but hunger and the chill eventually drive them off the roof of the van and into the vehicle, the doors pulled shut as they sit cross legged on the bed. Bucky has some sort of soft music playing over the speakers as they eat the food they pulled from the ice chest- a light soup for Bucky and pasta salad for Steve. 

“Holy shit,” Bucky sets his empty bowl to the side, his head tipping back. “I just realized you painted the stars on the ceiling.” 

Steve’s face flushes hot and he glances up at the constellations he had painted across the metal in glow in the dark paint. Random tiny stars and big constellations. “Yeah, I don’t know. I just thought it would be nice.” 

“I _love_ it.” Bucky reaches up and traces his finger from star to star. “There’s Cancer- that’s you. Wait.” He frowns. “Are you Libra now? Because technically your birthday falls in October now or are we just going to celebrate again in July and count you as twenty eight even though time-wise you’re not?” 

Steve’s head hurts just trying to keep track of that. “I’m too high for this, Buck.” 

“God, imagine if I tried to figure out how old I technically am now, what with the whole on and off ice thing for seventy years and the not existing for five.” 

“Bucky,” Steve whines, stacking his bowl with Bucky’s. He shifts around to flop stomach first across the bed, his face buried in one of the pillows. “Can you do math tomorrow? Or in your head? I really don’t care how old I am or what my constellation is.” 

“I g-” Bucky starts giggling. Honest to god _giggling_. “I guess it doesn’t matter how old you are. You’re baby.” 

“Um,” Steve flips over onto his back, squinting up at Bucky in the low light. “What?” 

“It’s like….” The brunet lies down next to him, waving his hand around in the air. “It’s a meme. Like, you’re just _baby_.”

“I don’t get it.” 

“Like if a bad guy was about to punch you, you get to say ‘hey wait, I’m baby’. And then the bad guy stops and he’s like ‘what the fuck does that mean?’ and that’s when _I_ come in and say ‘you can’t do that, he’s baby.’ And then you get to like stick your tongue out and the bad guy has to give up and leave because you’re baby, so….”

“Bucky, how high _are_ you?” 

“Six feet.” That was… one way to put it. “Hey, do you wanna cuddle? Because I wanna cuddle. Let’s cuddle.” 

Steve shifts onto his side, propping up on one elbow to look down at the brunette. “Okay- um, how do you want to…?” It’s not like they’ve never cuddled before, but it’s different now. 

“Just… lay on top of me or whatever,” Bucky shrugs and waves his hand around again. “I just wanna be close.” 

“Alright.” Despite him telling Steve it was okay and obviously expecting it, Bucky still grunts when Steve rolls over on top of him, his ear resting right over Bucky’s heart and Bucky’s thighs bracketing his hips. 

“Jesus Christ, you’re heavy.” He shifts, lifting his flesh hand to comb through Steve’s hair. His heart is beating firm and steady under Steve’s ear, an echo of the times he used to desperately listen to it and will his own heart to match Bucky’s healthy rhythm. It never listened, of course, but that didn’t stop him from trying. 

“Sorry,” Steve whispers, clenching a fist in Bucky’s loose sweatshirt. “I can move if it’s too much. I know I’m not… like I used to be.” Even still his body still feels like something he’s borrowed from someone else sometimes. Especially now, with his head spinning. 

“No, you’re fine. I can take it. I’m a super soldier too, remember? Besides,” Bucky drums his metal fingers gently up and down Steve’s spine, “did you know they sell weighted blankets now? The weight is supposed to be warm and comforting. You’re basically that in human form.” 

Steve bites down hard on his lower lip but it doesn’t stop his smile or the way the words make him feel like he’s about a hundred feet tall and floating on a cloud. “You think I’m comforting?” 

“I think you’re _everything_ , kid.” 

His breath catches. It shouldn’t be a surprise anymore to hear words like this but it still makes his heart trip to hear them every time. And he doesn’t know how to respond more often than not, but he still loves it all the same. “I’m only a year younger than you,” he grumbles, the old argument, but the reality hits him at the same time as Bucky speaks again. 

“No, Sweetheart, you’re not. I’ve got at least a decade on you now.” His fingers are gentle, carding through Steve’s hair. It’s getting longer, it needs to be cut. “It’s a crazy life, ain’t it?” 

“Yeah, but what was it you said? I wouldn’t give it up for anything. That pretty much sums it all up.” His eyes keep drifting shut, lulled by the soothing movement of Bucky’s hand in his hair. “’M glad I didn’t put that bullet in my mouth.” 

Bucky flinches, a full body jerk, hard enough to startle Steve’s eyes open again. “I’m glad you didn’t, too.” His voice is so hoarse it sounds like he’s been gargling broken glass. “God, you have no idea how glad. Baby, you gotta tell me if you start feeling like that again. We gotta get you in therapy-”

“I’m fine, Buck.” Steve soothes, reaching up to run his fingers against the thick stubble on Bucky’s jaw. “I got you now. That’s all I need.” 

“I wish it worked that way.”


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is the longest chapter of this fic so far, coming in at a whopping ten thousand words so please grab something to drink and settle in. as usual, im including a disclaimer here that i've never actually been to any of the places that steve and bucky have visited in this chapter but if i go into depth on it, then know i've done a bit of research on it and im trying to portray it in the most accurate way i can. if you have been to these places and notice any inaccuracies, of course please tell me so that i can correct them. enjoy!

After a day of illicit Badlands exploration and nearly half a week of hiking through Yellowstone, Bucky comes to the entirely unsurprising conclusion that mountain living is not his or Steve’s thing. They don’t have a physical list of places they might like to live, but if they did, he’d definitely be crossing off the rural areas right now. They’re gorgeous, of course, but the silence made his skin crawl. A little too close to the years burning Hydra out of the European countryside for comfort for either of them. 

They’ve been traveling for eight days when they get into San Francisco, the windows rolled down enough to smell the salt on the air. Steve has his feet up on the dash, singing along quietly to Roller Coaster by Bleachers. He’s started getting more invested in running the music during the long driving hours, picking through Bucky’s playlists for his favorites; although every time Bucky tells him he’s more than welcome to make his own playlist and put it on, he just smiles and shakes his head and says _’I like your music just fine, Buck.’_ He’s always had a nice voice but he’d been shy about it in Brooklyn. The only time Bucky had been allowed to hear him sing was when he would fake being asleep on the couch while Steve drew or made dinner. He doesn’t even try to keep the smile off his face as he glances over at the blond, over and over and over. 

“So, I’ve arranged for us to have a bit of a tour guide and we’re gonna stay with a… friend tonight instead of trying to get into a hotel.” Bucky shifts gears, grimacing as the vehicle works to climb the steep hill. “He’s something of a fan of yours. This timeline’s Steve was sort of friends with him- I mean, he was on our side when the whole shit show with the Avengers breaking up went down. I just want you to be prepared because he will act like he knows you.” 

“Buck, I’m sure it’ll be fine,” Steve says. 

“Why don’t you wait until you meet him to say anything?” 

They meet Scott and Cassie Lang at Fort Point, right beneath the Golden Gate Bridge. Another landmark Bucky has seen before, during his years as the Winter Soldier. He’d shot a French dignitary in his car from the top of the bridge and immediately dove into the bay where his handler was waiting in a submarine. Now, with his brain fully his own, he could come up with more than one way that assassination could have been carried out _much_ easier than it had been. But Hydra’s favorite hobby was making his life a living hell, so nothing was surprising about the mission parameters. 

“Lang,” he hasn’t seen the Ant Man since Stark’s funeral, when he was quiet and subdued but that’s worn off and the guy is practically vibrating with energy now as Steve and Bucky approach him. 

“Call me Scott,” he gushes, grabbing Bucky’s hand to shake. “We didn’t really get a chance to talk before, so I just want to say what a huge fan I am. I was so happy to see the news about you being pardoned; it’s so great that you two can finally live without being in hiding and everything.” He turns to Steve with a bright smile before Bucky can even reply. “Holy crap, Cap, I know I say it every time I see you but you look great! I gotta grab that skincare routine from you, I swear you’ve gotten five years younger since I last saw you.” 

Steve has an evil little glint in his eye that Bucky only recognizes because he’s known him all his life. “Eleven years actually, but who’s counting, really?” He shakes Scott’s hand and examines his cuticles when he pulls away, his face carefully bored. “I decided to start moisturizing. Serum only does so much, you know? I don’t want to go getting wrinkles for _at least_ another hundred years or so.” 

Scott’s grin goes a little confused but he nods along, “Right, of course. I could have sworn you had a few grays at your temples like last month though, pal.” 

“I moisturize my hair.” 

“Wow, really? I _really_ gotta try that shit. I’m not getting any younger.” 

Bucky has to turn away or he’s going to ruin it all by bursting into laughter. He’s not even sure what’s funnier- the way Steve is spouting the most unbelievable shit or the fact that Scott is seemingly _entirely believing him_. He leaves the two of them to their… delightfully intellectual conversation and heads over to the teenage girl sitting on a bench eating carrot sticks. 

She looks up at him as he approaches, her eyes almost hidden behind her sunglasses. “I figured I’d give him the chance to get it all out before I introduced myself. He’s kind of enthusiastic,” she extends the bag of carrot sticks and he takes a couple. “I’m Cassie.” 

“Bucky,” he sits down on the other end of the bench, squinting in the bright afternoon sunlight. It’s much warmer in California than anywhere else they’ve been on the trip so far and he’s down to just a loose t-shirt instead of the thick sweater he’d been wearing that morning. “Thanks for being willing to show us around the city.” 

“Yeah, ‘course.” She smiles, a little sad. “It’d be a shame for America’s most controversial war heroes to walk around doing _tourist_ things. It’s different than it used to be, but home’s home, you know?” 

“Yeah,” Bucky watches as Steve starts snickering at something Scott says, his head tipping back. The sun shimmers on his hair, turning it a bright spun gold. The serum makes it grow fast and thick and they haven’t bothered to keep it trimmed so it’s getting long enough now to tuck behind his ears when he pushes it away from his face. Much as Steve needs the contact of having his hands in Bucky’s hair when he starts getting anxious over something, Bucky does also enjoy getting his own hands in Steve’s. It puts the blond to sleep every time without fail when Bucky strokes his fingers through the silky smooth strands. “I know.” 

Scott claps Steve on the shoulder and turns, wandering over to the two of them while Steve heads for the van, mouthing _sketchbook_ when Bucky quirks an eyebrow at him. 

“That’s not Cap.” Scott flops down on the bench between Bucky and Cassie, his eyes narrow. “I don’t know what that thing is but it’s _not_ Cap. Cap just isn’t that funny.” 

“Dad, what are you talking about?” Cassie finishes off the last carrot and shoves the Ziploc bag in her pocket. 

“It’s _not Cap_ ,” Scott waves his hand, looking at Bucky, the picture of distress. “You’re supposed to be his best friend; you’re telling me you haven’t noticed? Spending hours in a car with him you haven’t noticed that something is off?” 

“You’re right,” Bucky smiles. “That’s not Cap. That’s Steve Rogers.” 

“I don’t follow.” 

Bucky sucks in a breath, rubbing his hands over his temples. They’re still kind of unclear on exactly how confidential everything needs to be kept, so he doesn’t want to reveal too much. Even though Scott should be trustworthy, it’s best to keep the full story under wraps until they figure out exactly what they’re going to tell the public. For a while at least, the press will have its hands full reporting on everyone that’s come back. “It’s a long story, but let’s just suffice it to say that there was something of a… glitch when Steve went to return the- uh.” He glances at the teenager and then back at Scott. “The artifacts. So what we have now is a Steve that only came out of the ice very recently. He doesn’t remember anything of the time from between the Battle of New York and when he… came back from returning the artifacts. I’ve filled him in, but yeah. This is Steve Rogers, just different than you knew him. I promise he’s not a threat.” 

“Cassie, why don’t you go introduce yourself to Cap?” Scott smiles brightly at the girl and shoos her off the bench. “It’s not every day you get to meet a hero, Sweetie.” 

“You could just say ‘please go away so we can talk’, Dad. I’m not ten anymore.” She rolls her eyes and heads over to where Steve is leaning against the side of the van, eyeing the bridge and sketching hastily in his open book. 

“Teenagers,” Lang laughs, but it’s forced. “You know, I didn’t expect to have to make the jump from little girl to sullen big girl so suddenly. I think the newness of me being back has already started to wear off. I feel like she’s angry with me, you know?” He sighs, shaking his head. “It doesn’t matter. So Ca- Steve? What’s the deal with that? When we were working out the details of the Time Heist, before Stark came in with his fancy tech, they accidentally aged and de-aged me a few times. I thought he was using Stark’s tech to return the stones though? That shouldn’t have happened.” 

The man is a hell of a lot smarter than he looks or acts, that’s for damn sure. It makes it much harder to keep the story vague. Bucky clears his throat, scratching the side of his nose. “No, uh, that’s not it. Let’s just say when you mess with time, time tends to mess back if you don’t successfully cover all your tracks.” 

Scott folds his arms across his chest and slouches down in his seat, staring at Steve hard, his brows knitted. It takes him a few minutes, but he sits upright with a gasp and wide eyes, turning to Bucky. “2012,” he breathes. “There’s no way for him to have unmade that timeline because Loki escaped with the Tesseract. Steve said he got eleven years younger, _you_ said he was only a few months out of the ice. That’s him, isn’t it? That Steve is from 2012. What? Did he come back through with our Steve?” 

Jesus fucking Christ. Bucky blinks at him, “Damn, Lang. You’re fast.” Maybe he shouldn’t be surprised, since this is the guy who came up with the whole time travel idea in the first place and knows quantum physics well enough to have made it possible. But shit. 

“Master’s degree,” Scott smirks. “So where’s our Cap?” 

“On life support, hopefully,” Bucky mutters under his breath. Which is mean, but. He has the right to be a little mean if he wants to be. 

“Christ, man.” 

He pushes himself to his feet and shoves his hands into his jean pockets. “Like I said, it’s a long story.” 

***

They grab lunch in Chinatown and spend the rest of the day roaming around the city with Scott and Cassie, going to little curiosity shops and such. Steve ducks into an art store that they pass and adds to his growing collection of supplies. Evening finds them heading to a place called the Church of 8 Wheels. Some sort of roller skating rink inside an old Catholic church. 

“We have to leave by seven,” Cassie enthuses, practically skipping her way to the building. “Or, I do at least. After that, it’s adults only. But it’s fun! Do you guys know how to roller skate?” 

“Uh, I tried it once and broke my arm, so…” Steve wrinkles up his nose. He’s walking next to Bucky, pressed to his side with one arm around his waist and Bucky’s arm thrown over his shoulder the way they’d walked in Brooklyn. But they don’t have to pretend it’s for the sake of Steve being able to hear Bucky speaking anymore. It just is what it is and there’s no one to give a shit. 

“Yeah, well, you were seven, Steve.” Bucky teases, reaching up to ruffle his hair. “I think you have a bit more coordination now. Besides, skates are a lot safer. And I’m here to hold you up if you still turn into a klutz the moment you strap wheels on your feet.” 

“I don’t recall you being much better at it either.” Steve grumbles, but he’s smiling. 

“Okay, I _definitely_ have more coordination now.” Bucky grabs the door handle and pulls it open, holding it while everyone else goes in first. He’s nothing if not the gentleman his mother raised him to be. He can see the appeal of the place the moment he steps into the building and the door swings shut behind them. The foyer opens up directly into the sanctuary, disco lights flashing and music blaring as skaters circle around the floor. He can’t keep the grin off his face as he turns to Steve. “Told you I’d take you dancing.” 

“No. No dancing on wheels, Bucky, I mean it.” Steve raises his eyebrows in warning. “I barely know how to dance in regular shoes.” 

“Uh huh, I’ll get you to dance, Stevie.” Bucky moves toward the counter to pay the fee. He waves Scott away when he pulls out his wallet. “I got it. It’s the least I can do in thanks for introducing us to the city.” 

They get their skates and Cassie has hers on in no time, heading out to the floor, her skating easy and practiced. Scott follows her almost as quickly. Bucky takes his time lacing his up so that he and Steve can head out to the floor at the same time. “Roller skates sure have come a long way from those metal contraptions we used to belt onto our regular shoes, huh?” 

“A lot better ankle support now, for sure.” Steve tugs on his laces, testing the knot. “Alright, I think I’m ready. If I break my arm, I’m gonna- I don’t have an end to that sentence but I’m gonna do something that’s for sure.” 

“Fights Hydra and aliens no problem, still afraid of roller skating, got it.” Bucky teases, pushing himself to his feet. It takes him a few seconds to adjust his balance but once he has it, he holds his hand out to pull Steve up. 

“I’m not _afraid_ ,” Steve scoffs, grabbing his hand, but his face tells a different story the moment he’s upright and his feet nearly roll right out from under him. “Don’t even say it, Barnes.” 

“Ooh, last naming me? That’s cold.” He tugs the blond out onto the floor. If they weren’t wearing skates this would be the moment for him to twirl Steve under his arm and bring him in close but he doubts that would go over very well in the current circumstance. “We’ll take a few laps, nice and easy. Find our footing. Then we dance.” 

Steve’s yelp is almost comical when Bucky pushes off, his momentum pulling both of them forward. The truth is, he’d always picked up things like this easy enough. His coordination had never been bad, but he’d pretended as a kid when he was around Steve because he hadn’t wanted to make him feel bad. The DJ is playing Footloose by Kenny Loggins, a song he knows even though he hasn’t seen the movie yet. He twists around, skating backwards so he can hold both of Steve’s hands, swaying his hips just a little. 

“Okay, since when can you do that?” 

“Since always and you can do it too, just study my motions. It’s not hard.” He slows down, making the foot motions more exaggerated than they need to be. “See?” 

“Uh huh. Maybe later. I’m fine like this for now.” 

“Okay.” He’s not going to push Steve into trying it if he’s truly not comfortable doing it, so he flips back around so he can see where he’s going before he runs into a wall or something and they skate laps around the rink, hand in hand. The music shuffles through a range of music, anything from the 50s to the 80s it seems like. Most of it is stuff that Bucky knows and he sings along under his breath, matching his movements to the beat. 

After a while, Steve bows out to get a bottle of water, so Bucky skates out to the middle to join Scott and Cassie right as Dancing Queen starts playing. Scott whoops and waves him over to where the two of them have all but taken over the middle of the rink. There’s not a lot of people here, not enough to call it crowded but it’s nowhere near empty. And more than half of them are in elaborate 70s party clothes. He doesn’t have to hold himself to Steve’s pace so he lets himself show off a little, twirling in a circle and shimmying his shoulders as he approaches the two skaters. “It’s true, I _am_

“Funny you should say that when I’m pretty sure I’m the dancing queen.” Scott shoots back, attempting an awkward moonwalk that makes Cassie wince and shake her head. 

“Okay, neither one of you are seventeen so you literally can’t be the dancing queen.” She points out, skating in backwards crossovers around them. “By law.” 

“Actually once you’re crowned, it doesn’t just expire once you aren’t seventeen anymore,” Bucky points out. “Dancing queen once, dancing queen forever, so I rest my case, kiddo.” He holds his hand out to her. “Now back in my time, we didn’t do this on skates, _but_ I can improvise. You ever swing dance before?” Even if she hasn’t, she’s comfortable enough on skates that she should be able to pick up the basics easily enough. He glances at Scott. “If your dad is okay with it, of course.” 

“If she won’t try it, I will.” 

“Wait your turn, Dad,” Cassie teases, taking Bucky’s hand, grinning bright at him. “I haven’t, but I’d like to.” 

It takes a few tries before he manages to translate the motions his feet want to make into something that will work with wheels attached to his feet but once he gets it figured out, it’s easy enough to walk the teenager through basic footwork and spins. The music has changed to Pour Some Sugar On Me by the time they’re in sync enough for him to whirl her around the floor, adding in a few easy lifts as they come to him. 

“I might have known I’d come back to find you like this,” Steve shouts over the music as he skates up to their little group, his hands on his hips. “You oughta start a dance studio or something. Give lessons.” 

Bucky brings them to a halt and releases his hold on Cassie. She’s laughing breathlessly, her face flushed as she sways a little, catching her balance. He clears his throat, backing away, because he recognizes the star struck look that’s all over her poor little fifteen year old face all too well and he’s sure as hell not about to point it out. But he doesn’t want to give her any further reason to decide she has a crush on him so he skates over to Steve’s side, one hand wrapping possessively around the blond’s waist. He leans in, kissing Steve’s cheek lightly. “That’s a great idea, actually. Might think about it once we settle somewhere. They just don’t teach dance now the way it used to be, it’d be really cool to bring it back.” 

Steve’s hand lifts to card into where his hair has come loose from its bun, he leans in slightly to whisper next to Bucky’s ear, “Still breaking the girls’ hearts everywhere you go, I see.” 

“Okay, I didn’t mean to,” Bucky hisses, “She’s a kid for Christ’s sake, it was like when I taught Becca how to dance.” 

“Well, I know it’s difficult but just remember to turn down the magic charm when you start your trailblazing dance studio.” Steve pats his cheek and leans back, his eyes sparkling with suppressed laughter. 

“You know what-” Bucky rolls his eyes and grabs both of Steve’s hands. “It’s your turn now. Dance time.” 

“Bucky, no-”

“Bucky, yes.” He twirls the blond, catching him and lifting him upright again when his feet inevitably roll out from under him. “C’mon, Stevie, trust me and my _magic charm_. It’ll be fun, Sweetheart, I promise.” 

“Famous last words.” 

And it is fun. At least until Bucky doesn’t manage to catch Steve when he causes him to lose his balance again and Steve lands hard enough on his ass to cause everyone nearby to look over in concern. 

***

Much as he actually did end up enjoying the time spent with the Lang family, it’s a relief to pile back into the van and get on the road the next morning. Cassie had kept her distance after he’d made his point with Steve but she was still blushing every time she looked his way and just a little on the side of _too_ helpful. It’s more than a little jarring compared to how Sage had acted around him. Steve didn’t stop teasing him for it the entire evening. 

They’re on Highway 1, driving along the coast. The sun is out and the air is warm enough to have the windows down, the wind whipping his hair loose from its ponytail. As far as he can tell, California is recovering from the snap the quickest out of all the places they’ve been so far. Life just continuing as normal as though half the population didn’t mysteriously reappear. The traffic isn’t too bad yet, but they’re still quite a ways away from LA.

“I love California.” Steve has one hand stuck out his window, waving it up and down with the wind current. “I really regretted that I didn’t get more time when I was here for the Captain America films. Most of the time I was on set. I’d have liked to have been able to see the ocean more.” 

“We can stop at a beach if you want,” Bucky offers, glancing over at the endless expanse of water. The waves are big, crashing hard against the rocks. “It might be a bit chilly for a swim though.” 

Steve goes quiet for a long, long moment. When Bucky darts a look at him, his face is white as a sheet as he stares at the ocean and he’s digging his fingernails into his palms in his lap. Finally, “No,” he says, quiet. “I don’t swim.” 

There’s a story here, something that Steve had already long since gotten over or suppressed in this timeline by the time Bucky reunited with him after Hydra, because he’d never seen him get anxious over the idea of getting in the water. It’s not hard to put two and two together and figure it’s probably to do with the Valkyrie. “Okay,” he reaches over and grabs Steve’s hand. Drops of warm liquid smear against his fingers and palm- blood from the assault of Steve’s nails in his skin. His stomach sinks, but he doesn’t mention it. “It’s nice to look at from a distance too.” 

Steve doesn’t speak for the next thirty minutes. 

It tears up Bucky inside and he nearly swerves out of his lane and crashes when he glances over and sees the terrifying, blank expression on Steve’s face. It’s not really like the one Bucky had when he was the Winter Soldier, more like Steve is trapped in his own thoughts, so consumed by them that he’s too far away to reach right now. It reminds him too much of days strung together in a haze of memories that forced themselves into his head as he tried to pull himself from the shell he had been made and become a person again. But he knows well enough from his own experiences that his words will fall on deaf ears right now if he tries to convince Steve to talk about what he’s feeling. So he holds his tongue even though it’s killing him, filling him up with anxiety. His fingers tremble around the steering wheel. 

When Steve finally does come back to himself, it’s in fits and starts. His face relaxes, awareness in his eyes. He shifts and stretches and when he speaks he doesn’t mention anything about the episode he’s come out of. “I always thought I would have done better health-wise if we had been out here instead of New York. The drier, warmer air might’ve stopped the recurring bouts of bronchitis and pneumonia, you know?” 

Bucky had entertained the idea a few times; he knew the doctors suggested those with weak lungs to move out west. But they hadn’t had the money to completely start over in a place where they knew nobody. At least in Brooklyn, they’d had Bucky’s family and the friends they’d had for most of their lives. He clears his throat so his voice doesn’t waver when he speaks. Doesn’t give away how his heart is still clenching in his chest and he’s forcing himself to breathe evenly. “You sayin’ you wanna live in California, Steve?” He glances over at him with what he hopes is a smile. 

“Hmm… maybe? What do you think?” 

They’re leaving the outskirts of Monterey. It’s a gorgeous area, populated enough that it doesn’t feel rural but without the chaos of the big city. “Huh.” He could actually picture them settling around here. “If we did, I want to be able to see the ocean, defensible, with the neighbors far enough away that we’re not practically living in each other’s yard.” He’d love beach front actually, but he doesn’t want to make Steve fall back into silence so he doesn’t bring it up. Either way, any house around here won’t come cheap but he’s not really worried about that. Aside from the fact that his military back pay will be releasing into his possession soon, he has the Wakandan card. “Why don’t you Google properties in the area? We can stop and look around a few, we’re not pushing too hard to get to LA tonight anyway.” 

“Wait, really?” Steve fishes his phone out of his bag. “You’d actually want to?” 

“Dunno. Maybe,” Bucky says, smiling at him again. “Let’s wait to get our hearts set on anything until we actually know if we can even find a place to live.” 

Steve makes a choking noise. “Buck, I just clicked on a random house and it’s three bedrooms and _seven million dollars_. I don’t think-”

“Don’t worry about the price, Sweetheart. It’s not something we have to worry about.” 

“But- but seven million and it’s not even a huge manor with a million bedrooms or a private tennis court or anything. I mean, it’s not a shoebox but….”

“Steve.” Bucky reaches over and squeezes Steve’s knee lightly. “I mean it. I really don’t care about the price.” 

“Oh, well in that case,” Steve says dryly, “here’s one that’s just a measly thirty five million but it has eighteen bathrooms and a ballroom.” 

“Perfect for my new career as a dance teacher.” 

“No, Bucky.” 

They stop at a few properties that Steve finds on their route. Most of them are closed and they can only walk around the houses, not that it matters because they’re total busts, too close to the neighbors, too difficult to defend, just not something that really resonates with either of them. But the one they’re viewing now could have potential. The listing had called it a ‘cottage’ but that was something of an exaggeration considering it’s behind a security gate and has six bedrooms, an infinity pool, and an in home theater room. It is beach front and Steve doesn’t seem put off by it, even comments on the nice stone path leading down to the rocky beach from the backyard and points out that the way the shoreline curves, the section of the beach is cut off from any neighboring sections. They’d actually managed to luck into being able to see it at an open house showing and the realtor is leading them around the upper floor, listing off the house’s selling points. 

“And here’s the sunroom, of course,” she says cheerfully, pushing open the double doors into a circular room facing the water. The windows are wall to wall and there’s a goddamn skylight flooding the place in sunshine. A couple of the windows have been opened to let in the air, the sound of waves crashing on the rocks and the calls of the seagulls. 

“Oh,” Steve breathes out, quietly. 

Bucky watches him as he gazes around the room. He’s not an artist but he knows full well what Steve is seeing right now. The potential. Ghosts of easels and canvasses. A studio. “What d’you think?” 

They’ve been through the rest of the house already, seen enough that Bucky can envision them living here. He’d especially loved the patio garden off of the kitchen and the open floor plan, but he doesn’t want to go ahead and buy it either. They haven’t even thought through the idea of living in California, just chased a whim here to this house. 

Steve’s face is wistful. “I like it, Buck. I like it _a lot_ ,” he hesitates and glances at the realtor. 

“Why don’t you two talk it over and meet me downstairs when you come to a decision?” She smiles and shakes their hands. “Take your time!” 

Bucky waits until she’s out of earshot before turning back to Steve with his brows raised. “I hear a _but_ in that statement.” 

“ _But_ ,” Steve runs his hands through his hair, brushing the loose bangs away from his face. His brows are pinched together, a harsh line between them. “Sixteen million dollars. When I came out of the ice they told me about my back pay and- I can’t believe I’m saying this- I only had a little over three million. I don’t even have that money here in this timeline. And even if I did and you got the same amount that would still leave us ten million short.” 

“Steve,” Bucky steps closer to him, his hands lifting to cup Steve’s jaw. “Sweetheart, c’mere. Let me tell you a secret.” He leans in to whisper. “I picked up the backup cash at about thirty Hydra safe houses in Europe when I escaped from them and stashed it in places I later had it retrieved from while I was in cryo. I have about seventy five million dollars currently in a bank account in Wakanda.” 

Steve sucks in a hard breath. 

“And the thing is?” Bucky pulls back, tugging the shiny black card from his wallet. “I’m not even entirely sure if this even links back to that account. When I said we don’t have to worry about it, I meant it, okay?” 

“Yeah,” Steve says, faint. “Jesus Christ, Buck. I always knew you were out of my league.” 

He presses his lips together to suppress his smile. “Nah, just think of it as a big fuck you to Hydra and remember you got famous before I did, you absolute _movie star_. Besides,” he sighs, “I love the house a lot, I really do, but we aren’t ready to make a decision just like that when we didn’t even think through the idea of living here.” 

“You’re right. We haven’t even finished the road trip yet. Maybe we’ll find another part of the country we like better.” 

“And if not,” Bucky drapes one arm around Steve’s shoulders. “We’ll come back and see if it’s still available. If it’s not, then it wasn’t meant to be.” 

And that’s that. They leave the house with the realtor’s information and get back on the road. 

***

Bucky had hoped that they’d make it to LA in time to visit Griffith Observatory but it’s after ten when they get into the city so they head straight to their hotel and crash almost as soon as their heads hit the pillows. They sleep in, waking up leisurely to the familiar symphony of screeching brakes, honking horns, and wailing sirens that come with every large city. Bucky wakes up first, his body curved in a protective parentheses around Steve’s. The other man is practically plastered to him, face pressed against the hollow of Bucky’s throat. The soft huff of breath against his skin tickles but he’s not about to move away unless he absolutely has to. He shifts, just enough to grab his phone out from under his pillow. He has a couple of texts from Sam and Sage, inquiries on how the trip is going. He answers those first and then opens his email. There’s only one unread, a reply to an inquiry he’d sent to his former Wakandan therapist a few days ago. 

He’s out of his depth with Steve and he knows it. Yesterday wasn’t the first time that Steve had gone blank like that, but it was the first time Bucky had noticed an episode that long. The few he has noticed were brief, five minutes at the most. He hadn’t even been sure what was happening at the beginning, assuming Steve was captivated by a view or something about the future and just… absorbing. But he’s seen enough now to know it’s more than that and it’s bad but he hasn’t been able to get Steve to say anything about what’s going on his head, so he’s guessing blind at what might be the cause. God knows, he’s been through enough trauma recently that it could be any number of things. The way he digs his fingernails into his palms had been something he’d done even before the war, when he was anxious, overwhelmed, the only outward sign of anything wrong other than his breathing patterns. He’s uncannily good at hiding his emotions entirely, but Bucky’s not about to let it get too far to sabotage them this time. 

The email isn’t much of a help; he’d asked if it were possible for Steve to have therapy sessions through a video chat and the reply only says that for cases like his and Steve’s, they really need to start out in a face to face environment to accurately diagnose and treat the patient. She offers to suggest therapists in New York that they can look into. But as well-meaning as it is, it’s really no help to them at all. He sighs and locks the device, shoving it under his pillow again. He hates pushing it off- it makes his chest feel like it’s full of static. Maybe they should just cut the trip short. Go buy that house and get settled so that they can focus on getting better. But they haven’t even made it to the Grand Canyon yet. And he wants to see the Johnson Space Center, and take Steve to Disney World…. 

But if something bad happens because he was selfish and wanted to fucking travel, he won’t be able to bear it. It’s probably just the anxiety speaking but his throat still dries at the thought. He breathes out shakily, tilting his head down to press his lips to the crown of Steve’s head. His hair is soft and it still smells like the strawberry shampoo they’d used at Scott’s house. 

Steve shifts, his nose brushing against Bucky’s throat as he stretches. “Morning, Bucky,” he mumbles, voice hoarse from sleep. 

“Hey, Baby,” Bucky runs his left hand over Steve’s spine, fingers seeking out the places he always used to press the knots out of every morning when Steve was small. He doesn’t necessarily need to do it now, but it’s still nice all the same. Steve hums and presses back into the point of contact. “How’d you sleep?” 

“Don’t remember having any nightmares so good, I think.” Steve shifts back, just far enough that he’s not smothered in Bucky’s neck anymore and they can see eye to eye. “What’s on the agenda today?” 

“I want to go to the Griffith Observatory but other than that, I don’t really care.” 

“The Hollywoodland sign is over right by that, we could go see it,” Steve offers. 

Bucky smiles. “It’s just the Hollywood sign now. They took the ‘land’ part off in ’49. Traffic is heavy enough around the area that I don’t think we’ll be able to get around the city and do a lot so we have to pick and choose.” 

“So what is there to do in the city? It’s been a long time since I was here.” 

“Well, we could always spend three hours in the Gucci store and then break for boba and spend another three hours in the Chanel store.” Actually, he’d meant the words as a joke but now that the idea is in his head, he kind of likes it. He only has a few outfits and he’s always had a… healthy appreciation for high fashion even when he couldn’t afford it. He likes to look good. 

“Gucci, like that shop we went to in Florence that sold those canvas bags?” Steve raises his brows. 

“The very same. They became quite the success in the fashion world, apparently.” It had been a tiny business when they’d wandered in while passing through. “We don’t have room in the van for a _lot_ , but we could pick up a couple of outfits maybe.” 

“Sure, okay, if you want to go shopping, that’s what we’ll do.” Steve leans in and kisses his cheek and then rolls away, standing up. “I call first shower.” 

And so they find themselves standing awkwardly in the middle of the Gucci store on Rodeo Drive under the half awed, half judging gazes of the store clerks. Like they can’t quite decide whether to be offended by their stained clothes that are definitely showing the consequences of hiking around in them or to be star struck by their war hero status. 

“Bucky, I feel too poor to touch anything in this store.” Steve hisses at him as one of the clerks approaches them. 

“We’re not having the money conversation again, Steve, and you’re getting those,” he points at a pair of royal blue loafers with the Gucci tiger embroidered on the toe. “Don’t even look at the price tag on any of this. We’re here to have fun and be rich.” 

The young woman that comes up to them has immaculately done pink eye shadow to match the hijab she’s wearing and she smiles brightly at them. “Hi, welcome to Gucci. My name is Zahra. If you’re looking for anything particular, I can help you now. Or if you’d like to browse, take your time and find me if you have questions about any of the products.” 

“I think we’d like to look around first, but thank you,” Bucky says. 

It doesn’t take him or Steve long to decide they don’t really care for the style of the majority of the ready to wear clothing on the racks, although Bucky does find a sweater with the logo emblazoned across the chest that he decides he needs. In the end they walk away from the check out with a bag each. Bucky with his sweater, a belt, and wearing a brand new pair of pink sunglasses on his nose, Steve with the shoes Bucky had pointed out and nothing else because he had refused to even consider it after looking at the price tags even when Bucky told him not to. But it’s okay. There’s a lot more time in the day and a lot more stores to go to. 

Before they leave the store, he tugs Steve to a stop by a full length mirror and pulls out his phone, opening the camera. “Do this,” he sucks his cheeks in, hollowing them out to make fish lips and throws up a metal peace sign, the handle of his bag sliding down to the crook of his elbow. When Steve copies him, he snaps the photo. 

“Why the pose?” Steve asks, curious, as they step out into the bright Los Angeles sunshine. 

“It’s just funny.” Bucky pulls up the photo and sends it in a group chat to Sam and Sage with the caption _shopping :)_. Sage’s reply pops up almost immediately. 

**Sage: people to rob**

Bucky huffs a laugh and shoves his phone into his pocket so he can grab Steve’s hand. Next up, Prada. They browse through several stores but Steve finally gives in and _shops_ when he sees the leather jacket selection at Yves Saint Laurent. Between the two of them, the amount of clothing they end up walking out of that store with is a little overwhelming and he’s not entirely sure they have room in the van for it all but they’ll make it work. Before they head over to Griffith Park they stop back by their hotel to drop the bags off and make an outfit change, because what’s the point of having new clothes if not to wear them? 

It’s sunset by the time they get to the Hollywood sign and it’s a little underwhelming but they get someone to take their picture in front of it and move on to the Observatory. Though he knows space travel has gone beyond what’s being displayed here- beyond what the regular civilian is allowed to know- and most of the information is stuff he’s already learned about, Bucky still wanders through the exhibits in awe. He’d heard about the Avengers’ trip to titan and honestly, he’s still a little jealous that they went to space and he didn’t but he can make his peace with it. He’ll get there someday and with a better reason than chasing that motherfucker Thanos across the universe. 

Steve, on the other hand, hasn’t had the chance to learn about any of this so he’s darting between the displays, absorbing the information with wide eyes. Gaping at the videos and photographs, absolute wonder shining on his face. “Bucky, the future is so _cool_.”

“Sweetheart, this doesn’t even begin to touch what’s possible now.” He steps behind Steve, resting his chin on the blond’s shoulder as he looks over the display- an analysis on finding planets by other stars than the earth’s sun. “Space can be great, but there’s also a lot of bad shit out there. We’ve both seen it. But we can still enjoy looking at the stars.” He pulls his phone out of his pocket far enough to check the time. “C’mon, the planetarium show is about to start.” 

***

It’s on a whim that they decide to detour into Nevada when they leave Los Angeles instead of just heading straight for the Grand Canyon. Steve had gone into the gas station to use the bathroom while Bucky was fueling the van up and returned bearing a travel magazine that apparently had a ‘tell all’ article about what was hidden at Area 51. The cover is dusty and the color has faded from exposure to the sun and the date in the top corner says it’s from 2021 when Steve angrily shoves it into his hands and demands to know if the government is actually hiding aliens and alien tech in a desert base. 

“I mean… that’s the prevailing theory.” Bucky thumbs through the magazine. It’s a load of hogwash- someone who had ‘actually managed to sneak in’ during the 2019 ‘raid’ telling their full story about the aliens they had found locked up and the warehouses of space tech. “But this,” he holds up the magazine. “This is all fake. Area 51 has been a conspiracy since way before aliens made it to earth. There was a big thing about a UFO sighting in New Mexico in… god, I think it was the late 40s. People supposedly found aliens, the government moved in and took the bodies and the ship to Area 51 and locked it down and nothing has happened since. I promise there’s no Chitauri breeding being covered up by the government in Nevada.” Anywhere else… well he wasn’t making any guarantees, knowing the way organizations like that worked. But Area 51 was too publicized for there to be anything there of that importance. 

“But there is a super-secret government facility hiding something that they won’t talk about?” Steve pushes, his brows drawn together in a frown. 

“I mean… yeah? The only secret is what’s inside though, everyone knows about the existence of the facility itself.” 

“Well, it looks like we have another place to break into then.” 

“We are not breaking into Area 51.” He takes in Steve’s stubbornly mulish expression, the one that without fail had gotten him into a million fights in Brooklyn alleys and sighs because he knows a lost cause when he sees it. He can still attempt reason but it’s not going to work. “It’s not even on our route.” 

“It’s not _that_ far out of the way. Buck, come on. It could be Hydra or something. And if it’s nothing, then the only thing we’ll have lost is a few extra hours driving. Maybe a day.” 

Bucky blows out a breath through his nose, tilting his head back. “Steve, it’s not an abandoned national park we’re talking about here. If we got caught we’d be lucky to get away with getting arrested, if not shot on sight.” 

“I think we have the skills to avoid that outcome. They’re not going to arrest Captain America and James Buchanan Barnes,” Steve insists, his jaw set. 

“ _Captain America_ and I were both wanted war criminals before the snap, so don’t hedge your bets.” He shoves the key in the ignition and turns, waiting for the engine to come alive. “But okay. We’ll go. We look around, find the best entry point and wait for nightfall. Get in, get out, and then hightail it to Arizona.” He very purposely does not think about the fact that if they did get caught he could be risking his pardon and be forced into hiding again to avoid life in prison or execution or whatever horrible fate the government decided to cook up for him. If all else failed, maybe they’d just have to escape back to Steve’s 2012 timeline, if worse comes to worse. 

“Thank you, Bucky.” Steve beams at him, securing his seatbelt. “I’ll put it in the GPS.” 

“Yeah, you better.” Bucky sighs and pulls out of the parking lot. “One of these days, Sweetheart. I’ll figure out the key to saying no to you. And then the ol’ baby blues won’t work on me anymore.” 

“I think if you were going to build up immunity to it, you would have done it by now.” Steve doesn’t look up from where he’s typing the destination into Bucky’s GPS app. “Should I put music on?” 

“Yeah… something upbeat that makes me want to go break into a highly guarded government facility for shits and giggles.” Steve hums in response and a few moments later USAliens by Jesse starts blaring through the speaker. “Really?” Bucky looks over at him with raised eyebrows. 

“Feel the rage, Buck. They’re _hiding things_. It’s important that the people are safe from whatever they’ve got there.” 

“I don’t want to feel rage,” Bucky sighs. “I want to lay in a hammock and eat strawberries for the rest of my life.” 

“We can do that. But first! Area 51. There’s bound to be a way in.” 

***

“There’s nothing here.” 

Bucky watches as Steve scratches at the back of his neck sheepishly. They’re standing in the desert, looking at the broken fencing that had blocked off Area 51 once upon a time. The place is entirely abandoned, whatever government facilities had been here are now long since emptied out. Broken liquor bottles and old, torn up camping equipment are scattered around the area, despite the presence of multiple large dumpsters. Bucky shades his eyes against the sunset and squints at the buildings in the distance. “It looks like the walls are all vandalized and the windows are broken. There’s no government secrets here, Steve.” 

“I’m beginning to realize we should start looking places up before we drive a long way to see them.” Steve sighs, turning to him. “I’m sorry, Buck. You didn’t even want to come in the first place and I dragged you out here for a whole lot of nothing.” 

“Don’t apologize,” Bucky laughs and bends over to gather up a handful of sun bleached broken glass near the van. He doesn’t want to slit a tire on it when they leave. “This is a hell of a lot better than breaking in. And we can say we’ve seen it now.” 

“Wonder what they kept in here.” Steve pushes his hair back, away from his face but the wind blows it right back in his eyes. “Any ideas?” 

“Well, based on my professional government agent opinion…” he starts throwing the pieces of glass into the nearest dumpster, a good twenty feet away. “It was probably a records facility or something.” 

“That’s boring,” Steve holds out his hand for the last piece of glass. He smirks and throws it into the dumpster without even looking where he’s aiming. 

“I’m sorry, Show Off, did you want me to say they were genetically engineering purple elephants that speak French and do the splits?” 

“Don’t be ridiculous. It was definitely something less obvious like… all of Howard Stark’s flying cars. They obviously couldn’t have regular people owning anything that awesome so they confiscated them from him and stashed them here for their own personal use.” 

“Those piece of shit cars that didn’t even work? They can have them.” He frowns when something stops rustling in the dumpster. If they’ve managed to piss off a skunk or if there’s someone living in there or something, he’s never coming back to Nevada. “Hang on,” he moves toward the big green eyesore cautiously. It’s not a skunk sitting on top of the pile of torn up sleeping bags in the dumpster though. “A _baby_ ,” he definitely doesn’t squeal. 

“ _What?_ ”

“C’mere, baby,” he coos, dodging the cat’s- well, he’s 79% sure it’s a cat- claws and pulling it out of the dumpster by the nape of its neck with his left hand. It’s hissing and spitting and practically tying itself in a knot trying to dig its claws into his arm to make him release it but they just glance off the vibranium. “Look, Steve!” 

“What is _that_.”

Steve doesn’t sound properly impressed. 

“It’s ours now.” The thing isn’t being still enough for him to get a good look at it. For all he can tell, it’s just a mass of dirty, matted fur and claws. He’s in love. “What you need is a good bath and some food and you’ll be right as rain.” He presses the angry animal against his chest, glad he’s not wearing any of the designer clothes he’d gotten, because it is _dirty_. Claws dig into his pecs but he ignores the needle prick of pain and heads to where Steve has backed up all the way to the van, his face a mixture of disgust and fear. 

“You’ve got to be joking.” Steve stares at him, eyes darting from the cat to his face and back again. “We are not taking that thing with us.” 

“Oh, yes, we are.” Bucky runs his flesh hand over the top of its head. It growls. “It’s just scared, Steve, it’s been living in a dumpster for fuck’s sake. Once it’s clean and has a full belly, it’ll mellow out. You’re gonna have to hold it while I drive us back into town to find a hotel though.” 

“ _Fuck, no_. It’s literally trying to claw your chest open. You’re bleeding, Bucky.” He backs up, his hands folded across his chest. “I’m not touching it.” 

It rides in Steve’s lap all the way into the nearest town. Or rather, it starts out in the floorboard and freaks out and claws its way to the top of Steve’s head when the engine starts and then they’re both- Steve and cat- screaming. Eventually Steve wrestles it down, not without taking a few scratches to his forearms, and holds it in a vice grip between his thighs for the rest of the ride. During which he complains non-stop. 

There’s only a shitty motel in town so they take a room in it and lock the cat in the bathroom for the time it takes to run to the convenience store and pick up cat food and Dawn dish soap, which the internet assures is safe and kills fleas. 

“I take everything back, they were _definitely_ keeping aliens there.” Steve whines, catching the cat by the midsection as it tries to escape the bathtub again. 

They’re soaked, the floor is soaked, and the walls are soaked. Hell, Bucky’s pretty sure there’s suds dripping off the ceiling by this point. They’ve gone through about half the bottle of soap and there’s still grime coming off the cat when he lathers it up again. He huffs a breath, blowing his hair off his forehead. “It’s a cat, Steve.” 

“It’s _evil_ ,” Steve insists. 

“Hey, not all aliens are evil,” Bucky winces when razor sharp teeth sink into his thumb. Although he has to admit, if it were an alien, it does seem to have it out for them. “Look at Thor and the rest of the Asgardians.” 

“You mean Loki? The guy that tried to decimate New York? Not helping your case here.” 

“No, he’s dead. Asgard got destroyed and Thor moved the citizens here a while ago. I think they’re in Norway now? I don’t know.” He holds the cat still while Steve dumps water over it until it rinses clean. “Are we done? Did we get it all?” 

“I think so,” Steve says, tilting his head back against the wall, his eyes closing. “We’re gonna drop it off at a pet store or something right?” 

“This is my _baby_ , Steve,” Bucky fakes offense. If the thing doesn’t settle down, they’ll have to, but he’s hoping by morning it’ll decide they aren’t so bad. Cats are his favorite animal, sue him. With the grime gone and it’s long hair soaking wet and limp, he can see that it definitely is some sort of cat. He’s not well versed in the different breeds, but Steve wasn’t that far off when he’d claimed it was evil. It’s got close set yellowish green eyes that are glaring at him like it’s planning to claw Bucky’s face off during the night. Its bottom teeth protrude from its mouth, sticking straight up, framing its squished nose. It’s fucking huge too. He’s not exactly sure if cats can be called muscular, but if they can then this one definitely falls under that category. “You’re so buff,” he coos at it. Her. She’s definitely a her. 

“I’m alarmed. This is alarming. I’ve never heard you use that voice before.” 

“I’m sorry you’re catphobic but she has done nothing wrong in her life, ever.” Bucky grabs one of the drier looking motel towels and wraps it around the cat, lifting her out of the bathtub. “Let’s get you dry and fed.” 

“That’s not a cat. Cats don’t look like that,” Steve calls after him as he walks into the main room. “If it kills us in the night, I’m gonna say I told you so. It’s _evil_.”

“Take a shower, Steve.” Bucky sits down on the floor, rubbing the towel gently over the cat’s fur. “You’re not evil, don’t listen to him.” The cat sits still while he tries to dry her off as best he can. She’s still eyeing him like she might bite him again at any moment but she doesn’t actually do it. He hums under his breath, stroking his fingers through the long strands of her fur. With it clean, it’s a pale gray with patches of black and white. “You need a name.” 

He leaves her loose on the floor when he stands to go grab one of the cans of soft cat food they’d bought but she follows at his heels as he walks across the room to the plastic bag. He pries the top off of it and sets it down in front of her. “There you go.” And he breaks into a grin when she _purrs_ and nudges her head against his leg before devouring the food. “Aren’t you the high class lady? Saying thank you? I know what to name you, yes I do.” 

“What’re you naming it?” Steve emerges from the bathroom with a towel held around his waist, his hair clean and dripping on his forehead. “I need pants.” 

Bucky’s gaze track over the water droplets rolling down his chest, over the muscles that _ripple_ every time he fucking moves. He’d always found Steve attractive, even before the serum, but he can appreciate a view when he sees one. “Bag’s on the bed.” He glances up to catch Steve’s eye and flushes hot at the way he’s smirking at him. It doesn’t really matter that he was caught looking because that’s a thing he gets to do now, but Steve- who had spent the first part of his life unhappy with his body- doesn’t quite know how to act over his muscles, even still. He’d fluctuated between two reactions during the war- extreme cockiness and horrifically awkward embarrassment. Today is definitely an ego day. He averts his eyes and crouches down, scratching the cat behind her ears as she eats. He’s not entirely sure if the noise she makes is a purr or a growl, but it’s not violence so he’ll take it as a win. “Her name’s Gucci.” 

“I’m offended on Gucci’s behalf.” Steve holds the towel in place with one hand, a swagger in his steps as he moves to the bed and digs in the bag, bending over just far enough to put his ass and the arch of his back on display. There’s a mischievous grin on his face when he straightens up and turns back around, sweatpants in hand. 

“Really?” Bucky raises his brows at him, deadpan. 

Steve blinks at him, eyes wide and innocent. “What?” 

“You know what, you little shit.” He pushes himself to his feet, crossing the room to poke his forefinger into Steve’s chest. “You know exactly what.” The way the blond has his chin lowered to look up at Bucky through the thick sweep of his lashes makes Bucky’s throat go dry, his tongue heavy in his mouth. But this is teasing, an attempt to get Bucky back in his pocket again so that he’s unable to say no when he asks him to leave the cat behind and it’s not happening. It’s been their one point of contention most of their lives. Steve’s most hated animal being Bucky’s most loved. Steve had always won the argument back before the war, citing his allergies as a reason Bucky could never keep any of the kittens that he’d found and brought home. But that’s not something they have to worry about now. 

“I don’t have a clue what you’re talking about.” 

“I’m not tricked by you; you’re trying to get me to abandon my _child_.”

“Did it work?” Steve drapes his pants over the crook of his arm so his hand is free to reach out and lightly touch Bucky’s side, just below his ribs. His fingers trace back and forth, slowly. Practiced. Like he’s well experienced in seduction, which is… unlikely. He well remembers this timeline’s Steve awkwardly kissing Sharon Carter. Bucky hadn’t even managed to be jealous over that, it had looked so stilted and painful. Not at all how he plans on kissing Steve. 

Eventually. 

He closes his eyes and swallows hard. “I’m not getting rid of my cat, Steve.” 

“But I’m allergic.” 

“No, you’re not. Not anymore.” He leans in to press a kiss to Steve’s forehead. “Serum means you can’t pull that one on me anymore. Sorry, Sweetheart. She stays.” He reaches behind Steve to grab his own pajamas from the bag they’d brought in. “Now I’m going to go take my shower and Gucci is still going to be here when I get out. Be nice to her and she’ll be nice to you, I promise.” 

“If I’m allergic, I’m gonna say I told you so.” 

“You’re not allergic.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the area 51 stop has been in my outline since before steve and bucky reunited, but it's a hilarious coincidence that i got to write and post it on raid day. free the aliens! i have pictures of reference for Gucci the Dumpster Cat but im not rly that tech savvy and i can't figure out how to attach them to this so if you want to see them, shoot me a message on twitter or tumblr!!


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi hi hi BIG trigger warnings on this chapter i'll put them here and put the rest of the notes in the post chapter note
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> this chapter deals heavily with intrusive thoughts and suicidal ideation/attempts. it's not really skippable without missing a big part of the story progression but if you do choose to skip then you'll want to stop reading when you get to 'the thing about nightmares' and skip through to the scene that starts with 'bucky is almost silent for the entire drive' ok bye sorry

The demon is sitting on Steve’s chest when he wakes up, her yellow eyes locked on his face, unblinking. For a moment he can’t work out what had woken him because The Cat seems to have been on her perch for a while. 

And then when he closes his mouth to swallow, he figures it out. 

His nose is stuffed up and his throat- well, it doesn’t hurt exactly. It’s one of those things where it’s more of an itch that you can’t scratch, the type that happens when the sinuses are draining. The type that happens when you’re allergic to something. 

Mother _fucker_.

He almost laughs- _would_ laugh if it wasn’t so alarming to actually experience. Fuck, is the serum failing? Already? Is it a hazard of traveling to an alternate universe? He breathes shallowly through his mouth. It’s barely even light out; Bucky is still fast asleep next to him, his face pressed against Steve’s bicep. He’s snoring, not a lot, not really even enough to count as a snore. It’s more of a soft snuffling noise and his heart flutters, just a little. He’s so, so whipped. Somehow he hadn’t figured on falling more in love over the course of the trip. This Bucky is so different from how he’d known him before- the cocksure young man with a heart of gold, but also an ego or the soldier drowning under the weight of a war he didn’t want to fight in the first place. This Bucky is calmer, more settled. He’s still figuring himself out, but he has an idea of where he’s going and what he wants to be. He’s been through unspeakable trauma and yet he’s managed to still come out of it and he’s _choosen_ to be soft instead of angry and withdrawn. He’s had years of growth that Steve hasn’t had the opportunity to have yet. But he knows enough to know he wants to follow Bucky’s example rather than the one his alternate self set in this timeline. 

And so he’s not going to tell Bucky he actually apparently is allergic to his cat. He may not like cats and he may spend the rest of his life miserable from being around the thing, but he loves Bucky and Bucky loves cats so he’ll put up with it. There’s no way he’s gonna fall back to sleep though, so he might as well get up. He shifts, trying to figure out how to get out of the bed without disturbing Bucky or invoking the wrath of the alien cat. “Get off,” he hisses under his breath, matching Gucci’s glare. Bucky stiffens at the noise and Steve freezes, waiting to see if he’s woken him. But then he turns his face, his stubble scratching Steve’s arm as he mumbles under his breath and starts snoring again. The cat seems to take this as an invitation to move off of Steve and curl up on top of Bucky’s head though, so he rolls out of bed before it can get any ideas about coming back. When Bucky starts to stir again, his brows scrunching up as he reaches out like he’s searching for Steve, Steve moves the pillow he had used and presses it against Bucky. 

It’s not that he has anything against Bucky waking up, of course not, but he’s been doing all of the driving and even though he doesn’t complain, it’s obvious the long hours on the road are taking a toll by the tired shadows under his eyes. He hasn’t let Steve drive at all, even though he’s offered plenty of times. Sure, he doesn’t have a license and he never _exactly_ learned how to drive a vehicle that wasn’t a motorcycle but it can’t be that hard to figure out. Regardless, he’s taken his job as passenger as seriously as he can. He’s not even sure Bucky has realized what he’s been doing, but over the course of the trip, he’s been trying to widen the spectrum of snacks he’s been providing, slowly introducing new things into Bucky’s diet. They’ve progressed from dried fruit to a variety of nuts, to pita bread and hummus. He’s even eating better at meals, more solids and bigger servings. It’s starting to show too, his cheeks filling out and his collarbones not as prominent when his t-shirt slips far enough to see them. He doubts they’ll ever get him eating chips and ice cream and whatever other mass produced junk food the future has to offer but he’s not starving anymore and that’s good enough for Steve. 

He quietly takes a change of clothes and his toiletries from the bag they’d brought in, making his way to the bathroom. The best hope he has of counteracting the allergy is to wash off thoroughly and hope it takes the dander or whatever is causing it down the drain. He turns the shower on to heat up while he strips off and relieves his bladder. The shitty motel has nothing by the way of washcloths so he’s left to scrub off with his hands, lathering body wash across his skin and washing it away under the weak water pressure. It’s a little upsetting how quickly he’s become spoiled to the luxury of the future, used to endless hot water and gloriously large showerheads that beat water across his skin like a massage. Just months ago he was in the middle of World War fucking Two, sometimes going weeks without access to washing. And now he’s vaguely annoyed that the shower spray isn’t wide enough to wash his entire back at once and he has to duck down to wet his hair. There would be some perks to being small again. 

He’s just finishing rinsing shampoo out of his hair when the water sputters and turns ice cold with no warning. The chill shoots like lightning down his spine, from his shoulders to his fingers, from his hips to his toes. He gasps, flinging himself out of the shower, away from the cold. Away from the ice. The shower curtain rips when he trips over it and he falls hard, hitting the floor in a fetal position, his breath coming in ragged, hitching gasps. There’s someone- Bucky- knocking on the closed door, calling his name. Worried. He’s safe, he’s not alone, and he’s _not_ in the ice. 

He closes his eyes tight and focuses on breathing evenly. “I’m f-fine,” he calls, grabbing the edge of the sink with shaking hands and pulling himself to his feet. “I just slipped.” He wraps his towel around his body and sucks in a breath, forcing himself to reach back into the shower to turn off the water. “Give me a few minutes to shave and get dressed and I’ll be out.” 

“You don’t sound fine.” Bucky’s voice is muffled by the ringing in Steve’s ears and the door separating them but he can still hear the concern bleeding into exasperation. “Can I come in?” 

He swallows hard. The last thing he wants is Bucky seeing him like this, shaking, teeth chattering, broken breathing just from water. Fucking water. “I’m really fine, Buck. I just didn’t realize the floor was wet when I was getting out of the shower and I tripped and kind of took the shower curtain down with me. That’s all.” God, he _hates_ lying to him but Bucky takes care of him enough already to put something as trivial as this on him too in search of comfort. 

“You’re not that clumsy, Stevie.” 

No, he’s not. He wasn’t even particularly clumsy on roller skates either, but he let Bucky think he was unsteady and purposely let himself get off balance so that Bucky would keep holding his hands, keep catching him. Even with the knowledge of love shared between them, even with the regular hand holding and casual contact and shared bed, he just craves more. All the time. The road trip is fun and all- he loves seeing the different places and learning about the future- but more than anything he just wants to have some time where they don’t have anywhere to be or anything to see or explore. Some time that could just be spent being close. In whatever capacity. He just wants the contact. He’d be happy with a day just spent with his ear resting over Bucky’s heartbeat and Bucky’s arms around him. They don’t even have to talk about anything. He just needs time for his body to relearn and accept the knowledge that he isn’t alone anymore. He’s got seventy years of ice to burn out of his veins. 

“I’ll be out in a minute, Buck.” He presses the heels of his palms against his eyes until he sees stars behind his lids and his hands are steady enough so he can scrape the stubble off his jaw without slicing his skin open. His first couple of weeks out of the ice had been a rough learning curve- SHIELD had provided him with an orange plastic razor that he’d had absolutely no idea what to do with. If not for his enhanced healing, he’d have been walking around with the entire lower half of his face scraped bloody. 

He pats aftershave over his skin and pulls on his jeans and t-shirt, surveying himself in the mirror. His hair is too long but he can’t really bring himself to care about that. His face is still pale, almost gray tinged and there’s no way to hide it. This is as good as it’s gonna get. 

Bucky is sitting on the end of the bed, already dressed for the day when Steve emerges. His gaze snaps up at the noise of the bathroom door opening, searching Steve’s face anxiously. “Are you okay?” He asks again. 

“It’s a good thing you’re not planning on showering this morning, the hot water ran out,” is all Steve gives him in reply. Bucky is smart, he’ll work out the answer from that. He’s still cold, deep and aching in his bones, the thin t-shirt he’s wearing doing nothing for warmth. 

“Shit,” Bucky breathes, pushing to his feet. He moves to stand in front of Steve, both hands coming up to cup his face. “Baby, your lips are blue.” His flesh thumb moves to press lightly against Steve’s lower lip, just for a moment before he pulls away. “Stay here, I’m gonna run to the van and get you a sweater. We didn’t bring one in.” He grabs the keys off the bedside table and darts out the door. 

Steve folds his arms over his chest, gritting his teeth so they don’t start chattering again. At least the steam from the shower before it had turned cold had done some good to clear his blocked nose enough that he can talk without it being obvious that he may never breathe through his nostrils again. Bucky returns with his bag from the Gucci store, pulling out the thick wool sweater he’d gotten. 

“I figured this is the warmest we have, so….” He says, holding it out. “I swear it’s not me trying to make you a cat person.” 

“It’s fine,” Steve pulls the material over his head and somehow it’s at least a size too big for him, the sleeves hanging down over his hands. He’s still cold, but it helps. “Look, I may not _like_ cats, but I’m not gonna try and make you leave her behind if you want to keep her. Unless she starts showing signs of rabies or something, you know? I don’t like her but I like you and _you_ like her and that’s enough for me.” Especially once he gets his hands on some antihistamine and figures out just how much of it he’s gonna have to take to make life livable with the thing. 

Bucky grins, bright and open, tossing the bag on the bed so he has his hands free to hug Steve tight. “She’ll grow on you, I swear.” 

“Like mold, maybe.” He presses his face against the crook of Bucky’s neck, soaking in the contact. “But okay. You couldn’t have found like a nice fluffy white kitten or something?” 

“Sorry,” says Bucky, not sorry at all. His fingers are carding through the hair at the nape of Steve’s neck, gentle nails scratching against his scalp. “So, Grand Canyon today,” he pulls back far enough for their eyes to meet. “I figure we’ve been pushing pretty hard traveling the past few days so we can stay there a couple of nights. I called ahead while you were in the shower and booked the campground.” 

“Okay, sounds good.” Steve smiles at him. “We should stop somewhere first though and pick up some more groceries.” 

“Yeah, I was thinking the same thing. Cat food too, maybe a leash, if I can get it on her. Check out for the motel is at eleven but I don’t think we have any reason to wait that long. It’s only a four hour drive so we can get everything we need and get there and set up before dark hits.” Bucky pulls away and looks over at the cat, sitting on the bed next to the bag of her namesake. “Huh.” 

“What?” 

“I have an idea, hang on.” He walks over to the bed and scoops the cat up deftly. For all the scratching and biting and trying to get away she had been doing the night before, she’s as limp as a rag doll in Bucky’s hands now, going easily when he dumps her gently in the bag, her head popping up to peer over the edge when he loops the handle over his shoulder. “Perfect.” 

***

So perfect, in fact, that no less than six women hit on Bucky in the aisles of Petco, despite Steve being _right there_. With each one Bucky graciously fends off with kind smiles, Steve gets progressively grumpier. They clearly know who the two of them are and they clearly aren’t fazed by the Winter Soldier history or the metal arm on display. Somehow he’d thought that becoming a historical icon might have made it where he wouldn’t get ignored in favor of Bucky anymore, and yet here they were. It chafes, burning bitter in his stomach to stand there and watch it happen. There’s a part of him that knows he _can_ intervene now, but the old habit of holding his tongue has a vice grip on him. The cat’s hideous growling face doesn’t even seem to deter the woman that’s cornered them in the leash aisle. 

Steve tolerates it when she laughs too loud and leans too close, but when she reaches up to touch a curl that’s come loose from Bucky’s half bun, saying something about _you have to tell me what products you use, your curls are just gorgeous, maybe you could tell me over coffee_ , he can’t keep his distance anymore. “Actually, he’s taken.” He doesn’t mean to be possessive but at the same time, why should he stay quiet? It’s not the thirties anymore so why should he stand back and let Bucky awkwardly rebuff her again and again, his refusals of her advances falling on deaf ears. 

“Oh?” The woman turns to him, her pout turning into a smirk as she looks over him. “What about you then, Mr. Rogers? You know, we really do owe you for fighting to bring us back from the dusting.” 

Jesus Christ, it’s like Private Lorraine reincarnated. He’d learned from that experience well enough to back up when she started to advance toward him. “I’m taken too.” He dodges around her to wedge himself against Bucky’s side. “Sorry.” 

The woman’s brows shoot up as she surveys the two of them, a smirk forming on her lips. “I see. I’ll leave you be then.” She’s already pulling out her phone as she walks away. 

“Is that… jealousy, I sense?” Bucky teases, turning to meet Steve’s gaze. “A bit of a green eyed monster moment?” He squeezes Steve’s hip lightly with his left hand, the shifting plates of metal still discernible even with the fabric of his jeans between them. 

“She _touched_ your _hair_.” He lifts his hand to the stray curl that she had been playing with, twisting it around his pointer finger so it goes back into a single, perfect ringlet. Back in order. 

Bucky grimaces, “Yeah, that wasn’t cool. I didn’t want to be rude, you know? But maybe that’s just how flirting is these days? I was too busy staying in hiding before to bother finding out.” He reaches out and grabs a yellow harness and leash set from the rack. His teeth flash white when he bites down on his lower lip. “I wouldn’t be surprised if we’re in the news tomorrow morning. Or tonight. She took a picture as she was walking off.” 

“ _What?_ ” Steve twists around to look toward the end of the aisle, but she’s long gone, of course. “How do you- no, don’t answer that. Shouldn’t we go make her delete it?” 

“No point in it.” Bucky drops the leash into the basket Steve’s holding. “It’s not like we’ve been _trying_ to hide. Really, I’m surprised no one leaked it sooner. Even if we did, it would only be a matter of time before someone else does the same thing and I don’t care if they know,” he hesitates, looking down at his feet, his arms folding across his ribs. “Uh… unless you want to try and keep it under wraps. I mean, I would get it if you do. You actually have something of a good reputation to defend. I’ve got nothing to lose; everyone’s always going to see me as the Winter Soldier before anything else so my… proclivities becoming public knowledge don’t really matter.” 

“Bucky, no,” Steve steps into his space again, setting the basket on the floor and bringing both hands to Bucky’s jaw to tilt his face up so their eyes meet again. “I’m not ever hiding you. Not _ever_. I don’t care if the entire world knows. Besides,” he huffs a laugh, “it’s not my reputation _exactly_ that I’m ‘defending’. Just think about him stuck in that fucking hospital, probably can’t even piss without help, forced to watch the news when it breaks. Let him see when he gave up, gave to _me_. Hell, I’ll give a tell all interview myself if that’s what it takes.” 

Bucky’s eyes are shining with unshed tears as Steve pauses for a breath, a soft smile on his lips. “I-”

“I’m not finished.” He catches a tear on his thumb as it falls. “You are so much more than the Winter Soldier, Buck. You always have been. Maybe no one else can see it, but that just makes them close-minded idiots. As far as I’m concerned, you’re just as much of a war hero as I am. More, even. I don’t know a damn person stronger. I always looked up to you, you know? That hasn’t changed. I’m just not afraid of admitting it anymore. I love you.” 

“You can’t just say things like that in the middle of Petco, _Steve_ ,” Bucky laughs wetly, dropping his head forward to rest his forehead against Steve’s shoulder. “I love you, too, you and your impromptu rousing speeches.” 

“They just happen, I can’t stop it.” 

“Don’t ever try to change, either.” 

***

When they get to the Grand Canyon, they spend a good fifteen minutes just silently gazing out over it, taking in the expanse. They’ve seen a lot of beautiful places in their travels but something about the canyon just commands a sense of awe. Hand in hand, soaking in this piece of the world that they’d planned on seeing so long ago. It doesn’t really take them any time at all to set up ‘camp’. They don’t have a tent to put up, no RV to hook up to water and electricity. All they really have to do is park in the camping site and let the cat out to use the bathroom. Surprisingly enough, the thing hadn’t freaked out or had any accidents in the car. Bucky had flipped Steve’s shield upside down and padded it with a pillow and the cat had slept through the entire drive. 

It’s definitely an alien. 

Steve is sitting cross legged on a boulder, balancing his sketchpad on his knee. Graphite strokes map out the canyon across the thick paper and he has an absolutely gorgeous set of colored pencils to add in the shades of orange and purple, the blue of the sky and the Colorado River far below. 

Bucky comes over, cradling his thermos of coffee. It’s chillier than they had expected it to be, not even fifty degrees out and it’s only going to get colder as night falls. Which makes sense when he really thinks about it, because it is nearly November but it doesn’t feel like it ought to be. His sense of time is messed up from changing timelines though. Hell, a month ago it was the beginning of summer for him. Steve tilts his head back as Bucky rests his chin on his shoulder from behind. “Hey. Lemme have some?” He drops his pencil in the bend of the pages to make grabby hands at Bucky’s coffee. The cold from the shower still hasn’t quite faded from his bones and the weather isn’t exactly helping. The two years between receiving the serum and crashing the plane almost feel like a fever dream, a brief respite from a lifetime of being perpetually chilled. 

The thermos is warm when Bucky presses it into his hands. “It’s just black.” 

Steve takes a deep swallow, the bitter liquid warming his throat on the way down. He passes the container back to Bucky. “I’m not totally spoiled on lattes yet, Buck. It’s fine.” 

“Well, you ought to be.” Bucky lightly pinches Steve’s side, not enough to hurt, just teasing. “If I can’t be gorging on the best sweets the future has to offer, you should be.” 

“Nope.” Steve grabs his pencil again, twirling it through his fingers a few times before bringing it to the paper to shade a corner in dark shadow. “That would be mean, I’m not gonna do that. Hey, does something about this drawing look off to you? It looks off to me but I can’t figure out what the problem is.” He takes the thermos from Bucky again, lifting it to his mouth for another drink. 

Bucky hums under his breath, leaning further over his shoulder to survey the page. “I think the angle is just slightly too curved here,” he reaches his left hand out and draws his finger along a section of the canyon. “It’s real good though, Stevie. You always have had a good eye. It was never any surprise to me that you got good commissions.” 

The mouthful of coffee he has goes down the wrong tube as he splutters and chokes, shoving his sketchpad and pencils away. He doesn’t end up spraying his coffee everywhere by sheer force of will, swallowing painfully and coughing, dragging in air. Bucky is rubbing his back firmly, murmuring _breathe, breathe, Stevie_ , the way he used to when Steve would be having an asthma attack. “Sorry,” he rasps. “Went down the wrong pipe.” 

“Are you okay? Was it something I said?” Bucky moves around the boulder so he’s standing in front of Steve instead, his gaze darting over Steve’s face in concern as he pushes the loose blond hair away from his forehead. 

Yes, it fucking was something Bucky said, but Steve’s not about to admit it. The heavy guilt of lying to him by omission is almost more choking than the coffee was. He’s gonna tell him about his past eventually, but he just… hasn’t figured out how yet. _Oh, yeah, by the way my ‘commissions’ weren’t actually about art. I was sucking dick in alleys, haha, funny story, right? But look on the bright side, I have a specific skillset you might be interested in!_ Fuck no. It’s not something to just bring up out of the blue. They haven’t even kissed yet, he has time. He’ll figure it out and tell Bucky eventually. When the time is right. He clears his throat. “Just swallowed wrong, I guess.” At least he can blame how weak his voice is on his choking fit. 

“Well, don’t do that.” Bucky teases, his eyes crinkling at the corners. 

“Haha,” he deadpans, but matches Bucky’s smile with one of his own. “You’re so hilarious, you should be a comedian.” 

“I know, right?” Bucky leans down and presses a light kiss to his forehead, a bloom of warmth that lingers on Steve’s skin even after he pulls away. “I’m gonna go call Sam and let him know we made it. I’ll leave the coffee with you. Try not to choke again, will you?” 

Steve hums an affirmative, balancing the thermos in a crevice in the boulder as Bucky walks off. He pulls his sketchbook back into his lap and examines the drawing, the line work where Bucky had pointed out that the angle was wrong. And it is. He wrinkles his nose as he erases and redraws, correcting the curve. It’s still something of a struggle to draw sometimes, his hand uneasy, faltering the lines he used to be able to do so easily. And he hasn’t managed to lose himself in art again, feeling every minute of the time it takes to sketch one thing instead of blinking and hours having passed. But he’s trying. He is. 

By the time the sun is setting, it’s 35 degrees out and they’ve retreated into the van, the doors shut up tight. And Steve is still cold. He’s curled up under their heaviest blanket and he’s still shivering. The temperature drop had been sudden and just enough of a shock after the incident that morning that he’d been fine one minute and the next his teeth were chattering and his fingers were turning blue. Bucky’s hovering, not unlike how he did before the serum, when Steve was cold all the time. “B-Buck, it’s fine, I’m not dying.” He rolls his eyes as Bucky dumps another blanket on top of him. 

“Don’t make that face at me. I’m turning on the heater.” Bucky scowls at him and scrambles toward the front of the vehicle. 

“You’ll run the car battery dead. I’m _fine_.”

Of course, Bucky doesn’t listen, he never does. Steve rolls his eyes again as the engine starts, looking over at the cat, curled up in her makeshift bed. It’s probably only a matter of time before her proximity to him makes his nose go all stuffy again. She growls. “Yeah, I don’t like you either,” he sticks his tongue out. 

“Are you bullying my cat?” 

“She started it.” Steve shifts under his blanket mountain as Bucky flops onto the pallet next to him. There’s already warm air coming from the vents. “Do you want covers?” 

“Nah, I’m okay.” Bucky plucks at the sleeve of his thick sweatshirt. “This is enough for now.” 

“Suit yourself.” He presses his face into the folds of the blankets and breathes in. It feels like a bit of a scam, that he should have this miraculous serum and still get cold like this. And it’s probably not the serum, he knows that. It’s the years in the ice. But still. The serum should be kicking in and preventing this kind of reaction. 

It takes about twenty minutes of the heat blowing on high for his body temperature to regulate and the shivering to stop. He pushes the blankets away from his face and sits up, glancing over at Bucky. The other man’s face is reddened, his forehead glistening with a light sheen of sweat. “Bucky.” 

“You feel better?” Bucky blinks at him, his eyes a little glassy as he looks up from his phone. 

“Bucky, are you hot?” Steve raises his eyebrows. 

“…Maybe a little.” 

“Yeah, maybe.” He reaches out and presses the backs of his fingers to Bucky’s cheek, the warm skin in direct contrast to his still cold fingers. “You could have turned the heater off, you jerk. You’re _too_ hot, you look like you’re about to pass out.” He crawls over Bucky’s legs, toward the front of the van so he can turn off the air. 

When he turns back around, Bucky is peeling his sweatshirt off. The golden light of the sunset streaming through the windows only emphasizes the way his abs work as he tugs the material over his head. Steve swallows hard, his gaze tracing up Bucky’s stomach and chest. He blushes, just a little as he meets Bucky’s gaze. “Better?” 

“A bit.” Bucky shifts, his right hand coming up to cover the scarring around his left shoulder. “Um. Can you hand me a t-shirt from my bag?” 

He reaches for the duffel and then hesitates, his fingers hovering over the zipper as he glances back at Bucky. “If it’s about the scars, you know I-”

“I just… they’re ugly.” 

“They’re _not_.” Steve moves closer to him, reaching out to touch the back of his hand where it covers his shoulder. “They’re just you. And you have never been ugly a day in your life and you know it.” 

A little smirk plays at the corners of Bucky’s lips. “Flattery, Steve?” 

“Is it working?” He glances over at the bag that holds his ever growing collection of art supplies, the idea hitting him like a light bulb going off over his head. “Can I paint on you?” 

“ _What?_ ”

“Hang on, lemme… it’s a thing I saw when I was looking up techniques. Lemme show you.” He grabs his phone and types _back painting_ into Google images, flipping it around to show the screen to Bucky. “Can I paint the sunset on your back?” 

“I… guess?” Bucky sucks his lower lip between his teeth, biting down on it. “Wait, how am I supposed to get it off, though? I’m not taking a shower in a shitty campground bathroom when it’s fucking freezing outside.” 

“I have some paints that will wash off easy with Wet Wipes or a washcloth, I can take it off after I finish.” 

“Okay. If you want, I guess.” 

Steve grins bright at him. “Thank you. Let me get the paints, you should lie down on your stomach.” He glances out the window as he fishes the paint set and brushes from his bag. There’s not enough time left for him to do the entire sunset before it’ll be dark, but what he can do is get the canyon and the sun on the line of the horizon and then bleed the sunset colors into the night sky and add in constellations. He turns back to face Bucky, pushing the blankets out of the way so they aren’t at risk of getting paint on them as he kneels next to Bucky’s hip and flips the paint set open. 

The scars really aren’t as horrible as Bucky seems to think they are. Yeah, there are a lot of them, but they’re old and silvery, even the ones around his arm. There’s nothing really ‘gross’ or ‘ugly’ about them at all. Not to Steve. But he doesn’t know how to make Bucky see it the way he does. 

Bucky tenses at the first brush of cold paint on his skin. “Isn’t the angle kind of awkward? You can sit over my thighs if it’ll make it easier.” 

Of course that makes Steve’s hand still, his gaze dropping to the thighs in question. The grey sweatpants Bucky is wearing hug the shape of them, thick with muscle. He licks his lips, his eyes falling closed as he takes a deep breath. It’s fine. No problem whatsoever. He’s completely composed. “Okay,” he squeaks. _Pull yourself together, Rogers_. There’s not even an hour of daylight left, he needs to paint fast. He swallows so hard it almost hurts and shifts positions so he’s kneeling over Bucky’s thighs, but he makes sure not to put his weight on them. 

Once he actually gets his mind into painting instead of thinking with his dick, the image takes shape quickly, blocking in the sun and the shadowed canyon as the light falls lower and lower. When it gets too dark to see, he turns on the lanterns, positioning them to give the best light as he finishes off the sunset and switches brushes to start painting the deep purples and blues of the night sky. With his smallest brush, he takes the white paint and adds in stars, some in constellations, some randomly placed. He adds in a few more details to the canyon and then sits back. “I finished.” 

Bucky fumbles for his phone, lifting it up for Steve to take. “Well, take a picture and let me see then.” 

He takes the phone, opening the camera and leaning back to angle the photograph so he doesn’t cast any shadows over the painting and then hands it back to Bucky. “It’s not my best.” He sits back down on the pallet next to Bucky and starts to close his paints up. 

Bucky is silent for a long time as he looks at the picture, pinching the screen to zoom in and out. Finally he rolls to a sitting position, pushing his hair behind his ears as he smiles at Steve, reaching out to grab his hand. “Steve, it looks amazing. Don’t put yourself down like that, Sweetheart.” 

“Thank you,” he squeezes Bucky’s hand. “Let me know when you want it taken off. It should probably be soon though; it’ll get itchy once the paint starts really drying.” He turns to store his paints in the bag. His brushes go in a little zippy bag until he can properly clean them. 

“Well, since I can’t actually see it, it’s up to you. It’s your art. Look at it as long as you want, but when you’re ready to take it off, I’m ready.” Bucky shifts, rolling his shoulders. “I just don’t wanna accidentally get it on anything while the paint is wet.” 

Steve hesitates, biting down on his lower lip while he thinks. “Okay, let’s go ahead and take it off then. But can I take a few more pictures first?” It’s the first thing he’s actually painted since before the serum, he’d like to have at least a few more photos to remember it by. 

“Yeah, of course.” Bucky hands the phone over to him again. Steve has his own but he’s been using Bucky’s just as much as his and they’ve mostly been taking photos with Bucky’s anyway so he takes it and snaps a few images of the painting from different angles. 

Bucky sits cross legged with his back to Steve as Steve pulls out a packet of Wet Wipes. He doesn’t particularly want to stain all of their wash cloths so it’s best to get as much off with the wipes as he can before he switches to wetting a cloth for the last of it. “This is gonna be cold.” 

“I figured it would be,” Bucky braces himself, his shoulders tensing. 

He starts at the small of Bucky’s back, where the paint is the closest to being dry. His free hand ends up curled around Bucky’s side, steadying him as he carefully wipes the paint away. It smears across scarred skin, the colors bleeding together. Bucky breathes quietly, evenly as Steve works, the silence comfortable between them. It takes him about eight wipes to get as much of the paint off as he can before switching to a washcloth. They have a gallon of water that he wets the cloth with, wincing at the temperature. The van has cooled off again with the heater not blasting anymore and it’s only going to make the chill worse. “This is gonna be colder. I’m sorry, I didn’t think this through.” 

Bucky looks over his shoulder, tucking his hair behind his ear as he meets Steve’s gaze. His face is flushed, his lower lip bitten bright red. “I’m really not complaining, Steve.” 

Steve blinks at him, a little taken aback by the low, husky tone to his voice. By how dilated his eyes are. This is affecting him- not the temperature but the closeness, the intimacy of having Steve washing his back. Okay. Steve knows this, knows how to act in situations like this. He clears his throat, lowering his chin just enough to look up at Bucky through his lashes. “Turn back around, Bucky.” 

Bucky swallows hard and twists to face forward again. 

It’s been a long time since he’s done this and he doesn’t want to push it too far, because he doesn’t want to sleep with Bucky tonight. Eventually, yes. But not for the first time in the back of a car with a demon cat watching them. But he can touch and he can drag out the skin to skin contact without letting it lead to sex. He licks his lower lip and touches the washcloth to the small of Bucky’s back, lightly tracing the tips of his fingers over the clean skin left behind in its wake. When Bucky shivers all over, he smiles. Yeah, he’s still got it. He sweeps the cloth over the paint stains, wiping them away one by one. When every inch is clean, he sets the rag aside and runs his hands up, up, up. Muscles quiver and jump under his touch as he lets his eyes fall closed and leans in to press the lightest kiss to the nape of Bucky’s neck. 

Bucky sucks in a hard breath. “Steve.” 

“Yeah?” he leans back as Bucky turns around fully. They’re still close, so close. His heart is picking up pace, thudding against the wall of his chest in an ever quickening rhythm. 

“Can-” Bucky’s tongue darts out, pulling his lower lip between his teeth for only a moment. Just long enough to leave indentations in the reddened skin. “Can I kiss you?” 

Steve’s breath hitches, his eyes locking with Bucky’s in the dim light. “Any time you want. Always.” _Yes, yes, yes_.

It probably only takes seconds for the distance between them to close, but it passes like hours in slow motion. Bucky’s hands coming up to cup Steve’s jaw, his fingers burning hot against Steve’s skin, even the metal ones- the metal so sensitive it warms to Bucky’s temperature like a regular arm would. He breathes out shallowly as Bucky leans in, tilting his chin up just as Bucky’s lips brush his. 

It’s not fireworks. 

It’s falling back into the softest featherbed in the world, it’s waking up to bright sunshine on the first warm day after a hard winter, it’s the first breath he took stepping out of the serum machine- the first breath of his life that didn’t hurt. It’s warm and it’s safe. And it’s home. 

His hands fly up, one at Bucky’s wrist, the other resting right over Bucky’s heart. It thud-thud-thuds against his palm, inexplicably in time with the beat of his own pulse. The kiss isn’t even deep, their lips lightly brushing, pulling back, brushing again. And yet it’s the best kiss he’s ever had. When he tastes salt, he almost thinks the tears are his. “Bucky?” He tips his head forward, breaking the kiss to lean his forehead against the other man’s. Bucky’s eyes are still closed, tears slipping silently down his face. “What’s wrong?” 

Bucky shakes his head, finally opening his eyes to look at Steve. “Nothing. For the first time in a long time I actually think everything is right.” His fingers slide down to press against Steve’s bottom lip. “I have- _wanted_ for so long. _So long_. I got used to the idea that I would never be able to _have_.”

“You can always have.” Steve leans in and kisses him again, because he can. Because he wants to. Because they need it, they both do. “Always. I love you. So much.” 

“I love you.” Bucky whispers, another tear falling from his lashes when his eyes fall closed again. Steve catches it on the tip of his finger, brushing it away. “Can we just….”

“Yes?” 

“Can we just sleep? I just want to be close to you.” 

Steve responds by gently pushing Bucky to lie down against the pillows. He turns the lanterns off and drags the blankets over the both of them as he settles in next to him, his head on Bucky’s chest, one arm wrapping tight around his waist. “This is my favorite part,” he whispers. “The places we go are great too. This trip is probably the most fun I’ve had in my life. But this. This is my favorite part.” 

“It’s my favorite part too.” 

***

The thing about nightmares is, you can’t control them. All Steve can do is be thankful for the fact that he doesn’t thrash awake or scream in his sleep. The pillow under his face is soaked with his tears when he blinks himself awake at dawn, his muscles tensed, heart thudding. Bucky sleeps on, the blankets pulled all the way up around his ears as Steve sits up, drawing his knees to his chest and silently shakes apart. He has to keep quiet, keep his breathing in check. He doesn’t want Bucky to know. To ask. He doesn’t know how he would say _I dreamed your ghost visited me to tell me how worthless and unlovable I am. To tell me all I do is let you get hurt._. To tell him that Bucky is better off without him around to hurt him. 

He can still hear the sneering words echoing in the back of his mind. It’s just a dream. It’s not real. It’s not real. But the mantra doesn’t do much to stop the voice from coming. It always comes back, sometimes as Bucky, sometimes not. He digs his nails into his palms and presses his forehead hard against the tops of his knees. The van is freezing, he ought to be able to feel that. It should be affecting him. But he can’t really feel anything except the way he’s drowning in his own head and he doesn’t know how to pull himself out. 

He’s fucking useless. He’s never going to be good enough. He’s never going to deserve Bucky. In the end he’s only going to hurt him, because fuck, his future self has already proved that beyond a shadow of a doubt. This timeline’s Steve had probably only had the best of intentions when he found out Bucky was alive too, but it still turned out horrible in the end. Bucky thinks he’s this fresh faced, innocent person, entirely different from the Steve that had left him, but they’re the same person. They’re the same fucking person. He clamps his hand hard over his mouth to silence the sob that wants to force its way out, swallowing it down instead. 

In the end, they’re the same person. Who he is, at his core, the corruption is already there, already building. It’s the nasty voice that speaks to him randomly- you’re not good, you’re selfish, you should just die, crush your hand under Mjolnir it won’t hurt that badly, what if you’re the one that killed Bucky and you imagined the ghost, hey remember when you drowned… now think about nothing else for the next hour. It’s not that far off from what Other Steve had written in the letter explaining his reasons for leaving. And it’s been there since before he even got the serum, he’s only just now realizing it. 

He needs to get out of this van, needs to breathe fresh air. He bites down on his lower lip hard enough to taste blood and carefully maneuvers himself to climb into the front seat, pushing the passenger door open. The cold wind hits him like a slap to the face, goose bumps pebbling on his skin under his sweater. 

“Steve?” 

Shit. He swallows hard, hopes he can blame how his voice sounds on just waking up since Bucky can’t see his face anyway. “I’m just going to the bathroom. Go back to sleep.” He steps out of the vehicle and shuts the door tight behind him before Bucky can respond. There’s a thin layer of frost over the ground, glistening white in the light of the rising sun. He presses shaking fingers to his eyes until he sees stars behind his lids and stumbles away from the van. He’s lying to Bucky again. He _hates_ lying to Bucky. Every time he does it’s like swallowing fucking poison, burning bitter in his chest and stomach. But Bucky has enough on his shoulders without Steve unloading how fucked up he can get on him too. 

The wind stings Steve’s face as he wanders closer to the edge of the canyon, staring out over the miles and miles of eroded rock. Purples and oranges stretching all the way to the horizon. It’s gorgeous, it really is. 

What if he fell off? 

He sucks in a sharp breath through his teeth, his gaze dropping from the skyline to the ledge, to the mile long drop. Craggy sharp rocks that would dash his body to broken, bloody pieces before he could hit the ground. It would hurt but pain is nothing. Steve knows pain. He shuffles forward, just a little. He’s just looking, he’s not gonna do anything. 

What if the rocks crumble underneath him too fast and sudden for him to react and he falls? 

What if he trips and stumbles and pitches face first off the cliff? 

What if? 

_Whatifwhatifwhatifwhatif?_

His toes are hanging over the edge. What if? A pebble clatters as it falls, down, down, down. What if that was him? 

He’s shaking, he knows it in a distant way, trembling like a fucking leaf. From the cold, from the ceaseless fucking thoughts, from the adrenaline of being so close. And he hates himself. He fucking _hates_ himself. He’s so fucked up, this is so fucked up; he’s locked up somewhere in his mind, screaming at himself to stop, stop, _stop_ , but his body won’t listen. Every breath he takes is like vapor in his lungs, useless, making him dizzier. He might throw up. Black spots dance in front of his eyes. 

He doesn’t even realize he’s dropping until his stomach flies into his throat, until a startled gasp tears its way out of his chest. He flings his hand out, searching for something, anything to grab onto, to _stop_. He doesn’t want to die, he _doesn’t_. _Please_. A metal hand wraps around his wrist like a vice, tight enough he can feel a bone in his wrist snap, and yanks him up so forcefully that he’s thrown back, far away from the edge. His elbows scrape against the rocks. The sharp, sudden sting of pain flooding him- his wrist, his arms, the side of his face where it slams into the ground as he comes to a stop- forces his head clearer. He can taste the dirt on his tongue, can feel the ache as his heart slams into his rib cage way too fast. 

Bucky is standing over him, eyes wild, shaking. He’s still shirtless, his skin pebbled all over with the cold. “What the _hell_ , Steve?” His voice carries, echoes, strangled with the fear in it. “Why did you _do_ that?” 

“I was just…” he falters, “looking?” 

“You threw yourself off a cliff! That’s not looking!” Bucky’s face is so pale his skin is nearly grey. His knees give out and he slumps down on the rock next to Steve, shaking hands reaching out to run lightly over Steve’s arms, to gently lift his broken wrist. His bottom lip quivers, tears freezing on his cheeks as they fall. “Do you want to die _that badly_? Is it me?” His voice rises in volume with every word. “I thought- I thought we were getting better. I thought- I never should have kissed you, I’m _sorry_. I’ll let you leave if that’s what you want, you don’t have to be around me, we can get you back to your timeline. But please, _please_ don’t make me watch you kill yourself. I c-c-can’t-”

“Bucky, no,” Steve’s crying now too- still- pushing himself to a sitting position and ignoring the flare of agony in his wrist. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. It’s not you. I don’t want to leave, I’m sorry. I don’t know what happened.” His breath hitches in his chest with every word, throat aching from his tears. He reaches out to touch Bucky’s arm, but he jerks away before Steve can make contact. 

“Then what the _fuck_ was that, Steve? I watched you! I watched you walk right over to the edge of the cliff and I watched you step right off! That doesn’t happen without a reason!” Bucky shouts, wrapping his arms tight around his bare stomach, his shoulders hunching. 

“I’m _sorry_ ,” Steve begs. He doesn’t know what else to do. How is he supposed to explain when he can’t even make sense of it himself? Fuck, he was about to die. He finally has Bucky the way he always wanted, _finally_ has his love, and he was about to give it up and literally kill himself and he doesn’t even know _why_. He’s so fucking pathetic, what the _fuck_. “I don’t know. I’m sorry,” he sobs, “please don’t be mad at me. I’m sorry.” He doesn’t have any right to ask that. Of course Bucky should be mad at him- he just nearly killed himself and he can’t even come up with a reason for it. He nearly threw himself off a cliff and fell to his death the same way Bucky fell off the train. He’s so fucking stupid, so selfish. That’s the worst possible way he could come up with to kill himself if he _were_ purposely trying, but he’s not. At least, he doesn’t think he is. He doesn’t want to die, he doesn’t. He wants to live and get married and _live_ and be happy and live and never have to fight again. He wants that. 

Bucky presses his fist against his mouth, a choking noise escaping as he slumps forward, his forehead resting against Steve’s shoulder. “I’m not mad, I’m not mad at you. I’m not- I’m _scared_. That’s why I was shouting. I’m not mad at you.” His arms wrap around Steve’s back, tight, and they cling to each other, shuddering and crying as the wind blows gusty and cold around them. “I know there’s something going on with you-” he breaks off, huffing a bitter laugh. “Obviously. I’ve known for a while, I know you’re hiding it. You gotta stop, _please_. Tell me what’s going on, Baby. Or… or if you don’t want to talk to me, maybe talk to Sam. _Someone_. It’s tearing you apart.” 

“You’ll hate me,” he chokes out. “You’ll think I’m weak and- and stupid. It’s so stupid.” 

“I have _never_ thought you were weak,” Bucky pulls back, far enough to press a quick kiss to his lips. “Stevie, _please_. If you want me to beg, I will. You can’t keep it all in, Sweetheart. It’s not weak to share your pain with someone else. Hell, I know how scary it is. Sharing is the bravest thing you can do. I _love_ you. No matter what it is, that’s not going to change.” He’s shivering hard now, his lips faintly purple as he speaks. 

Steve reaches his good hand up, brushing away the tears on Bucky’s face. “It’s so cold. Can we go back to the van?” He… he will _try_ to talk. Will try to explain. Try to make sense of it all. Bucky nods and pushes to his feet, helping Steve up. They’re both walking on unsteady legs, leaning on the other for support. The back door of the van is flung open, one of the blankets half hanging out over the bumper, like Bucky had thrown himself out of the vehicle in a panic. Which he probably had. Fuck. “I’m sorry.” 

Bucky shakes his head, climbing into the van behind him and shutting the door tight. “I’m gonna turn on the heater.” He crawls over the pallet toward the front of the vehicle to get the air flowing, grabbing Gucci on his way and dumping her in the front seat, not paying attention to her offended growl. When he turns around he grabs a little black bag from under the driver’s seat, one Steve hasn’t seen before. “Let me see your wrist.” 

Steve holds out his throbbing arm silently, the skin is swollen, angry purple bruises from Bucky’s fingers. The bone is already working hard to repair itself- he’s broken enough to know at this point. Doesn’t mean that it doesn’t still hurt like a bitch every time though. 

Bucky’s lip trembles as he gently prods at the swelling. “It’s broken. I… I didn’t mean to grab that hard. I’m not sorry for doing it though.” He turns and pulls an Ace bandage out of the bag, tightly wrapping the injury. “It’s already set itself at least.” Steve grits his teeth through the pain that the pressure sends shooting up his arm like flame in his bones. When Bucky finishes securing the bandage, he zips up the bag and puts it away before turning back to Steve. His face is tight with stress, eyes red rimmed and skin blotchy from crying. “Talk to me, Stevie. Please.” 

What can he possibly say that will make it better? “I don’t want to hurt you.” 

“I would damn well rather that you hurt me than hurt yourself, Steve.” Bucky snaps, looking like he regrets the words as soon as they’re out of his mouth. He swallows hard and rubs his right hand over his face. “Whatever it is, we’ll work through it together.” 

He drops his chin to his chest, drawing his knees up and wrapping his arms around them. “I…” It hurts to speak. He clears his throat, breathing shallowly. “I had a nightmare. In it, your ghost was following me around, telling me how awful I am, how all I do is ruin your life. He was telling me you would be better off without me.” 

“I would _never_ -”

“I know. B-but… but I have… this _voice_ in my head telling me things like that and- and worse. Almost every day. Not even when I’ve had a nightmare. Awful things.” He digs the fingernails of his good hand into his palm, scared to look up, to see the judgment on Bucky’s face. 

“What kinds of things, Sweetheart?” Bucky grabs his hand, forcing his fingers to uncurl. “Things like… fall off a cliff?” 

“Yeah,” he whispers. “Like that. And,” shit, he’s crying _again_. “And I can push it away, I’ve been pushing it away my whole life. I don’t know why I couldn’t today. I couldn’t… it was just… I was just trapped in m-my head watching it happen and I couldn’t _stop_. I tried to stop. I didn’t want it to happen. Not like… not like when I’ve tried before.” 

“These thoughts were there before the serum?” Bucky nudges his chin up so he’s forced to look at him, sad blue eyes searching his face. 

“Yes.” Not as strong, nowhere near as strong. But they were. 

“And, uh… the Valkyrie… that was the first time you- tried- wasn’t it? Steve?” 

Steve swallows hard, screwing his eyes shut so he doesn’t have to watch the disappointment and horror on Bucky’s face. When he’d contemplated telling Bucky the secrets he had kept from him since Brooklyn, this one wasn’t one of them. It’s one he’s pushed down so far he didn’t even remember it until Bucky asked. “Do you remember that time right after Ma died when I went missing for like a day and then when I finally dragged myself home, all beat up and you were practically beside yourself with worry?” 

“Steve….”

“I had just moved in with you and I couldn’t do much and I just felt like a burden all the time and I hated that you were working yourself to death for me. I was out… looking for work. This guy offered to pay me to play Russian roulette. If I won, he’d give me a hundred bucks.” In retrospect he should have known that the guy definitely didn’t have that kind of money to be giving out on a bet. That was before he had gotten into prostitution, before he learned how to tell the size of a man’s pocketbook at a glance. He’d been distraught, guilty, grieving and he couldn’t back down from a challenge. Especially the kind that came with the rush of danger, the thrill of his life on the line. 

“What the _fuck_ , Steve? Why would you ever agree to that?” Bucky’s hand is shaking in Steve’s now. He opens his eyes, looks up to every bit of the terror that he’d expected to come from this revelation. 

“I didn’t care if I won or lost,” he says quietly. “Figured you’d be better off without me to drag you down anyway. So I played and the chamber was empty when I pulled the trigger. Of course, the fella wasn’t looking for a nice game so he kicked my knees out and put the gun to my head and started pulling the trigger. And I didn’t fight him. I just stayed there on my knees in that alley and I let him. The gun jammed and I guess he knocked me out with the butt and then kicked the shit out of me while I was unconscious but… I’ve always been fucked in the head I guess. That was the only time before the Valkyrie.” 

Bucky’s throat works, his mouth opening and closing as tears well up in his eyes. Finally he detangles his hand from Steve’s to grab him by the shoulders and drag him into a tight hug, laying both of them back against the pillows. “I’m so sorry. I failed you.” 

“Bucky, no, it wasn’t you-”

“It was my fault I didn’t see that you were hurting for so long. I should have known. I know now. And let me tell you something. I know about intrusive thoughts. I had them so bad as I was recovering from Hydra.” 

“You did?” Steve leans back to look at Bucky. Intrusive thoughts. He hadn’t even known it had a name, let alone that it was something that other people went through. Something _Bucky_ went through. Just knowing that he’s not entirely alone in it is like a thousand pounds lifting off his chest. Maybe he’s not totally a freak. Maybe Bucky understands. 

“I did.” Bucky kisses him softly. “I still do sometimes, but I know how to handle them now. Fighting them only makes them worse, my therapist taught me that. You have to let them run their course. They don’t define you though, they don’t represent how you might really feel. They just happen. I know what it’s like. Mine are usually more… violence toward others rather than myself. But I get it.” 

“Does it ever get better?” 

“It can. If you put in the work to get better, if you have a support system, a therapist. It gets better, Stevie. You just gotta stick with it.” 

And that assurance is so relieving that it’s what really breaks him. He curls forward, his forehead to Bucky’s chest and cries until there’s no more tears left and sleep claims him again. 

***

“Sam, I don’t know what to do.” 

Steve blinks awake, catching the tail end of the words Bucky is sobbing out. He keeps his breathing deep and even, doesn’t move, doesn’t give any indication that he’s awoken. In his sleep, Bucky had shifted their position so he’s laying with his head in Bucky’s lap, face pressed against his shirt. Bucky’s hand is running through his hair, trembling. 

“Yeah. Yeah… I don’t know. He didn’t- I don’t know.” Bucky’s mumbling, voice choked. Steve hates himself for causing this. “Do you think we should? I wanted to finish but after today… is it even safe? I’m failing him by keeping this going. I never should have…. Yeah.” 

If he really tried, Steve could hear what Sam is saying, could get the full conversation. But his head is pounding and his wrist hurts and all he can hear is Bucky’s hitching sobs. He doesn’t want to interrupt the phone call but every broken breath that Bucky takes tears through Steve’s heart like a knife. He caused this. He’s _hurting_ him. He turns onto his back, pushing himself up on his elbow to look up and see the damage. 

Bucky’s eyes widen when they meet his. They’re entirely bloodshot, puffy underneath them. His skin isn’t blotchy anymore, just so, so pale except for the red around his eyes and his lower lips bitten raw. “I’ve got to go, Sam. I’ll talk to you later.” He pulls the phone away from his ear, hitting the end call button before tossing it amongst the blankets. “Hey, Sweetheart. How’d you sleep?” 

Steve brushes the backs of his fingers over Bucky’s cheek. His skin is burning hot to the touch. “Buck, I’m so sorry.” With the nap, his head is clearer. He’s better able to focus on how this must feel for Bucky. Fuck, he knows only too well what it’s like to watch Bucky die. He would never, _never_ wish that kind of pain on anyone, let alone on Bucky. The man he loves more than life itself. “I’ve been so selfish. I never wanted you to have to feel like this.” 

“I know.” Bucky’s eyes droop closed as he presses his face into Steve’s touch. “It’s not your fault. I don’t blame you. I… It’s my fault. I never should have decided to take this fucking trip until you were in a better place. Fuck, _I’m_ the one who’s been selfish. I’ve been having doubts about it for weeks already. I shouldn’t have… you needed time. I was just so goddamn eager to get away from everything, to try and get on with living life. I didn’t even stop to think about what you’ve been through.” He sniffs, roughly dragging his fist across his eyes. “We need to stop. We need to go straight back to New York and you need to see a therapist. I can’t keep this going knowing you’re feeling like… like this and I’m just letting it happen because I wanted a chance to travel without my life on the line for it.” 

“Bucky, no.” That’s the last thing he wanted to cause. “I can keep it in control, I _can_. We can finish the trip.” He’s having fun, he really is. He doesn’t want to go back to New York. It’s not home anymore and it’s too different to ever really be home again. “It’s not your fault at all, you’re not selfish. I’m having fun, I really am. We can keep going, I have it under control.” 

“No, you don’t!” Bucky bursts into hysterical laughter, rocking back and forth, his face pressed into his hands. Steve’s hand hovers near his hair, not touching him, not sure what to do. Slowly, Bucky’s laughter fades out, fades into choking sobs again. “No, you don’t, Steve. God. This is- we’re so fucked up.” 

He doesn’t know what else to do but fling his arms around Bucky, hugging him as tight as he can. He slides his hand into the tangled hair at the nape of Bucky’s neck, kissing his temple. “Shh, shh, it’s okay. I know, my love. I know.” 

“We have to stop. We have to go back. We have to find you a therapist.” Bucky presses himself so close to Steve that he’s nearly in his lap. “God, I had this horrible feeling that something bad was going to happen only a couple of days ago. And it did. It’s my fault.” 

“It’s not your fault.” The position is starting to hurt his wrist a lot so he shifts, leaning his back against the side of the vehicle and pulling Bucky squarely into his lap. It takes the weight off his healing arm and lets him rub his hand up and down the brunet’s back. “Buck, I don’t want to go back to New York. I want to finish the trip.” 

“No. No way.” Bucky pulls back to glare at him. It doesn’t have as much of an effect on him with the puffy eyes and trembling lips as it would have without them, but it’s still menacing all the same. “We’re going back, we’re finding you a therapist, and we’re staying there for as long as it goddamn takes.” 

“Please, Bucky? We’re so far from New York anyway it won’t take that much longer to stop at the rest of the places we wanted to. And…”

“And what?” 

“I don’t want to go back. New York is just… bad. That’s all it’s been for me since I’ve woken up. First I was all alone and everything was so big and scary and confusing and then the aliens came and then _Other Steve_ and- and my Bucky dying and. I don’t want to go back. Not yet. _Please_.”

Bucky groans, pressing his face against Steve’s shoulder again. “God damn you, Steve. I can’t- you can’t put me in this position. If we don’t go back and something else happens… it will be my fault for putting you in a bad situation when you’re dangerous to yourself.” 

“You think I’m not in just as much danger from myself in New York as I am here?” Steve snaps, pushing Bucky back so he’s forced to look at him. He’s not trying to make it worse, but he has to point it out. “Whatever I may or may not do to myself, it’s never going to be your fault. But there’s just as much opportunity for danger- more honestly- in the middle of a big city then there is when we’re spending ninety percent of our time traveling- with you behind the wheel, not me. You have to realize that.” 

“Are you saying you intend to try to hurt yourself again?” Bucky’s voice is almost shrill. 

“No. But if it’s like today and it does happen, _it’s not your fault_.” He leans in and presses his lips against Bucky’s, just briefly. “I don’t want to go back to a place that has nothing to offer me because my head decided to fuck me over a little more today than usual. I want to keep traveling with you. I want this,” he kisses him again, “to keep developing. I don’t want to stop.” 

“I….” Bucky closes his eyes tightly, taking a few deep breaths. “There would have to be… contingencies.” 

“Whatever you want.” 

“We cut out the Carlsbad Caverns from the itinerary. I’m not comfortable taking you there. We leave the Canyon _today_. I don’t want to be anywhere near it anymore. You have to agree to stay in sight at all times and you have to check in about your mental health at least a few times a day. If the thoughts start getting bad again, you have to _tell me_.” Bucky pushes his hair behind his ears. “I mean it, Steve. I can tell when you’re hiding things. So you agree to this or we’re going straight back to New York.” 

He bites his lip, taking a deep breath. The thought of having to talk about the state of his mind multiple times a day is… not appealing. But that’s going to happen anyway, whether they keep traveling or not. They’re really only adding about a week and a half, maybe two by continuing the trip than they would have spent if they went directly back to New York from here. “Okay. I promise.” 

“I can’t believe I’m doing this.” Bucky wipes his hands across his face. “Alright. Get in your seat, let’s get the fuck out of here.” 

***

Bucky is almost silent for the entire drive. He holds Steve’s hand at all times, unless he has to let go to shift gears, which he does as quickly as possible and immediately grabs him again. When they stop to get gas and use the bathroom he follows on Steve’s heels and only turns his back to give him time to piss. When he does talk, his voice is wrecked, but he gently asks how Steve is feeling, says they can stop in any town if he needs to. He doesn’t. They pull into some tiny town in the very southeast corner of New Mexico around sunset. There’s another shitty motel- less shitty then the one they’d stayed in back in Nevada because this one has a bar connected to it. It’s lit up with bright neon lights and it seems to be just about the only one in town because it’s packed. They take some things to their room, let Gucci out to stretch her legs and eat. 

He’s ridiculously glad that the cat has suddenly decided to become the model of good behavior because there’s no way he could have handled her throwing a hissy fit in the van the entire day. He dumps his duffel bag in the floor and slumps onto the bed. They’re both drained, physically and emotionally but he’s not sure they’ll be able to sleep any time soon. “Do you want to go to the bar?” 

“What, like we can get drunk?” Bucky sits beside him, leaning his head against Steve’s shoulder. “I goddamn wish I could, but I can’t.” 

“Don’t have to get drunk to just change the pace, distract ourselves from… everything.” 

Bucky is quiet for a long moment before he sighs heavily and pushes himself to his feet. “What the hell, why not?” 

And that’s how they find themselves wedged into a booth in the darkened bar, a beer in front of both of them for all the good that drinking it will do. The red vinyl covering the seats is cracked all over and painful against the tip of Steve’s finger when he pokes at it curiously. Wooden walls are nearly covered in old posters, license plates, and post cards. Bucky points out a jukebox, a karaoke machine, a few ‘vintage’ video game machines. The dance floor is filled with couples in jeans and cowboy boots, stomping their feet to some upbeat music playing over the speakers. 

Steve runs his finger around the rim of his beer bottle, leans down to blow across the top of it to hear the hollow note that rings back. “It’s strange in here.” 

“It’s a dive bar.” Bucky smirks, taking a swig from his bottle. “You’re lucky they’re not playing country music- some shit like,” he lowers his voice to an almost comical bass. “ _Baby, lock the door and turn the lights down low_ -” he breaks into a grin as Steve starts laughing. 

“What the fuck was that?” Steve wheezes, giggling. 

“That’s called a classic.” He takes another drink. “But we seem to have come on eighties night judging by the music. Though not by the clothes. The amount of boot cut jeans in this place ought to be a crime.” 

Steve bumps his foot against Bucky’s under the table, reaching across to twine their fingers together. “So the eighties had better fashion?” 

“Oh, fuck no.” Bucky splutters. “The eighties were absolutely appalling. It was all about shoulder pads and patterns. Although,” he looks Steve over, considering. “I do think that you could rock a crop top and short shorts.” 

“Yeah, in your dreams.” 

“Hell yeah, they are.” 

Their eyes meet and they burst into laughter at the same time. Steve takes a long drink from his beer, his lips wrapping around the neck of the bottle. When he looks at Bucky out the corner of his eye, he’s flushed and watching him raptly. Slowly he lowers the bottle, smirking at Bucky as he sets it down. “Something else for your dreams maybe.” 

Bucky flushes immediately, bright pink, his gaze dropping to look firmly at the table. “ _Okay_ , Steve,” he mumbles. “Don’t get ahead of yourself.” 

“Uh huh.” He props his elbow on the table top, resting his chin in his hand. His wrist is almost completely healed, only a twinge of pain left when he moves it. The bruises and swelling have been gone for hours. “I’m nowhere near ahead of myself, Doll.” This is fun, easy. This is good distraction. He doesn’t need to think about anything other than slowly turning up the charm and flirting and watching Bucky squirm. 

The corners of Bucky’s lips tilt up at the pet name. “Never thought I’d hear you calling me _that_.”

“I have more.” A whole list of stock phrases he could pull out at the drop of a hat. Paired with the bat of his eyelashes, they had gotten him a loyal clientele. He doesn’t want to use those for Bucky though. Bucky is more important than some cheap lines that feel more like reciting a script than anything. 

“Oh, you do, do you?” 

“Don’t expect me to reveal them all at once though.” He pretends to examine his nails. “Sugar’s rationed, you know.” 

Bucky’s laughter is music to his ears. They take turns coming up with worse and worse lines, snickering harder with each one as they finish their drinks. They’re about to call it a night and head back to the hotel room when the music changes and Bucky perks up. 

“Dance with me,” Bucky grabs Steve’s hand, his eyes shining in the low light of the bar. “I love this song.” 

“I still can’t dance,” Steve smiles at him and stands anyway because fuck, Bucky looks so _happy_ and he can’t deny him anything ever. Especially after everything he’s put him through today. The music is synth-y and upbeat and he laughs as Bucky drags him to the middle of the dance floor and spins him under his arm. 

“Baby, do you know what that’s worth? Ooh, heaven is a place on earth.” Bucky sings along with the music, his head thrown back, grin on his lips as he spins them round and round the dance floor. Both of Steve’s hands clasped tightly in his. “They say in heaven, love comes first. We’ll make heaven a place on earth.” His gaze catches Steve’s and holds. His hair is in loose curls around his shoulders, falling in his face. 

Steve could nearly cry with the swell of love and gratitude building in his chest. He almost lost this, for a stupid fucking reason. But he’s still here and he’s getting another chance to make it right. He tugs his hands from Bucky’s to step closer, to cup his face and tilt their foreheads together. Against all odds, they’re alive and they’re here and they’re together. 

Maybe heaven _is_ a place on earth after all. He’s got his heaven right here, dancing eyes locked on his own, laughing breathily an inch away from his lips. He shuffles closer still and kisses him, because he wants to, because he can. Once on his lips, once on the tip of his nose, once on his forehead. “We’re gonna make it, Buck. I know we are.” 

“I know we are too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OKAY so this chapter definitely developed a mind of its own and did things i didnt expect it to do. for example, the first kiss wasn't supposed to be until chapter 21 but here we are. it just felt right here instead. as for steve's intrusive thoughts, i have hinted lightly at them before but this is the first time i've really gone into detail. i realize this could be confusing if you haven't noticed the subtle hints but as someone with intrusive thoughts myself, i assure you that sometimes you can go months without anything happening and then all of a sudden have horrible days where they just don't stop. so im hoping it doesnt seem too out of sync to suddenly have a focus on them here. this is my longest chapter yet!! she clocks in at a solid 12.6k words long and i really didn't intend for it to be that long but for a while i thought it was gonna end up longer bc i didn't know if i would be able to fit everything in under 15k but we succeeeded! 
> 
> i'm officially starting school on the 14th so updates from here on out may take slightly longer, at least until i adjust to classes and figure out a new writing schedule. sadly i have 8am's four days a week and the school is in the next town over so i will be forced into becoming a morning person. this doesn't look positive for my regular schedule of having my most productive writing hours from 8pm to 1am. oh well. i will learn to adjust do not fear. according to my calculations there's only four more chapters + an epilogue so i'm gonna write as much as i can before classes start so i can try to get ahead of the schedule crunch a bit. 
> 
> also!!! this gorgeous piece of art that the lovely nick @616buck on twitter did for the bar scene!!!! when i say i CRIED-  
> 


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so uh..... this chapter goes out to the bitches who were sad from the last chapter,,,, hope this perks u up idk its mostly like 6000ish words of fluff and 7000 words of content that i am extremely not confident writing because i dont have much practice so if its shitty im sorry but i did my best..... peep the rating change babey ;) 
> 
> also i have never been to the space center even though im a born and raised texan so i kind of glossed over it and houston in general,,, in hindsight i should have made them drive through dallas instead bc thats my City and i could have waxed poetic in great detail but oh well. and i based bucky's experience driving in NOLA on my own experiences in the city, although i wasn't the driver it was pretty stressful/funny in retrospect to watch my mom have a crisis
> 
> i had planned on keeping this until at least a week had passed since my last update but im going out of state tonight and i wont get the chance to post until the weekend if i dont so surprise you get it early even tho i like the feeling of having a chapter done early that i can hold onto for a little while. hopefully i'll be able to get some good writing in this weekend before i start school bc after that im worried about how much free time i'll have to write and whether or not it'll affect my motivation but i WILL finish this fic on god. the next chapter is one i don't really have much currently plotted out for so if there's anything you'd like to see wrapped up in it, please drop it in the comments bc there's only three chapters left and the other two ive got outlined already so let me know if you've been noticing any plot holes or anything so i can make sure to correct it before i finish out the fic ok thanks have fun with this chapter bye

It is, apparently, Halloween. 

Bucky glances over at Steve, smirking as he gapes at the costumes that the people on the street are wearing. They’ve just gotten into Houston, checked into their hotel, and they’re on their way to dinner. The street the restaurant is on is having some kind of block party, kids and adults alike running around in full costume. He’s seen at least fifteen different Captain Americas in the past five minutes. The crowd is dense and he’s tensed up, trying to keep track of everything going on around them. If anyone was planning an attack, this would be the perfect night to do it. No one blinks twice at anyone carrying weapons, they wouldn’t even realize if someone had a real one. It would just be a sick costume until it was too late. 

And Steve… he has to keep a watch on Steve too. The blond has been subdued since yesterday morning, since Bucky caught him and hauled him back from the brink of death. Other than arguing for finishing out the trip, he’s gone along with everything Bucky says without complaint, sticking close, making it easier to keep an eye on him. Logically, Bucky knows that he can’t watch Steve _every minute_ of _every day_ but he’s goddamn gonna try until he’s sure that he’s not in danger anymore. He doesn’t really feel comfortable dragging out the trip anymore but he doesn’t really know what else to do, either. Steve had made a point when he’d said finishing it out would only push them a week and a half more at most than if they went straight to New York. Sam had called him again last night after Steve had gone to sleep and told him that Sharon was working on getting Old Steve a new identity so that this Steve can publicly still be Steve Rogers. And Sam had spent the afternoon getting in contact with some people he knew from when he was with the VA and he’ll be vetting therapists to find one for Steve. That’ll take at least a week. So they might as well finish out the trip instead of sitting around in New York, twiddling their thumbs until everything actually falls into place. 

Bucky still hates it. 

It knots anxiety tight in his chest, making every breath hard. He’s just so goddamn scared that he’ll _blink_ and that’ll be the one second that makes all the difference and this time he won’t be fast enough. He nearly wasn’t fast enough at the canyon. Thank _God_ he had sat up to watch Steve through the frosty window instead of lying back down to doze off again. If he hadn’t… he wants to throw up just thinking about it. 

“Buck,” Steve tugs at Bucky’s sleeve, hissing under his breath, his eyes locked on someone in the throng of people. “Buck, look at that one.” 

It’s a guy with such extreme FX makeup that he wouldn’t look out of place on the Walking Dead. Steve has come to a standstill as the guy gets closer to him, his eyes about as wide as Bucky’s ever seen them, openly gaping at the zombie. The guy lets out a horrible growl, grinning when Steve jumps, tripping backwards against Bucky’s chest. 

Bucky winds his arms around Steve’s waist, kissing the curve of his shoulder. “You’ve seen a guy peel his face off and fought aliens and a Halloween costume is what scares you?” 

“Half of his face is rotting off and his guts are hanging out.” 

“Yeah, he should win best costume. Hell of a lot of work went into that. C’mon. Restaurant’s just ahead.” He releases Steve’s waist to grab his hand and tug him toward the door. The place is kind of a hole in the wall but he’d looked at their website and they claimed to be a ‘green eatery’ so they should have something he can eat. His stomach is starting to get better about food anyway. The interior is darkened and draped with fake cobwebs, tiny pumpkin buckets filled with candy on every table. A hostess takes them to a table in the back corner- _less interruptions from the trick or treaters back here_ , she says when she notices Steve and Bucky both tense when a crowd of screeching children come in. 

After they’ve ordered, Bucky nudges his foot against Steve’s under the table. That’s something new, something they hadn’t done before last night but he likes it. The casual contact. “Check in.” 

“I feel good,” Steve shrugs, pushing his bangs off his forehead. “I promise, Bucky. I’m _good_.” He leans forward, elbows folding on the tabletop, his eyes locking and holding with Bucky’s as if to let him look into his soul and see that he’s telling the truth. 

“Okay,” he nudges his foot against Steve’s again, breaking into a grin when the other man hooks his ankle around Bucky’s. “I love you.” 

“Love you more.” 

“Not possible.” 

Steve perks up, “Is that a challenge?” 

Bucky rolls his eyes. He should have known that’s what Steve would hear. “No, Steve,” he takes a mini Milky Way bar out of the pumpkin bucket on their table and tosses it at Steve. “It’s just a fact. Since I was eleven, Sweetheart.” 

“Does length of knowledge dictate amount of love, though?” Steve muses, tearing the candy open and popping it into his mouth. He chews and swallows before speaking again, “Because I did find my way to another _universe_ for you so I think that makes up for the fact that I didn’t know that early.” 

Bucky throws another candy at him. 

“Hey,” Steve squints at the packaging. “What’s a vampire’s favorite fruit?” 

“A nectarine.” 

Steve pouts. “Aw, c’mon. It’s no fun if you don’t at least _pretend_ like you don’t know the rest of joke.” He pushes the wrapper aside, leaning back in his seat. “Hey, look, we’re on the news.” 

Bucky twists around in his seat to look at the TV in the corner. There’s no audio, but subtitles are running across the bottom of the screen and he can read lips anyway. The picture of the two of them in the aisle of Petco takes up the top right corner of the screen and a banner proclaiming **Captain America- GAY?** runs across the bottom. Two smartly dressed reporters are sitting behind a desk, discussing it. 

“I mean we all know the lengths that Cap went to for Bucky Barnes back in 2016; refusing to sign the accords and publicly fighting the Avengers in Germany. I mean he willingly became a war hero for the guy,” one of the reporters is saying. “It’s really not that groundbreaking. Everything makes a lot more sense with this in perspective.” 

“I get what you’re saying but I think they’ve just been close friends their whole lives and they’re still close friends. They’re both the only person each other has from their own time period. And let’s not forget that the Winter Soldier was one of the victims of the Dusting. Cap just got him back after thinking he was dead- again. Of course they’re gonna stick close to each other. Doesn’t mean they’re in a relationship.” The other guy folds his arms over his chest, rolling his eyes. “They’d probably both pass out from shock at these allegations alone, Louise. These are guys that grew up in the good old days. Homosexuality just wasn’t a thing back then. It’s frankly disrespectful to push any sort of agenda on them. They’re _war heroes_ , not fodder for Pride Month.” 

“Jesus Christ,” Bucky turns back around. He’s seen enough. Frankly he doesn’t really give a shit what the news outlets are saying about him, he’s just curious, but the ignorance of ‘homosexuality just wasn’t a thing back then’ is so frustrating that he can’t keep watching. 

“Does that guy even think about anything he’s saying?” Steve scoffs, his gaze still locked on the screen. “Oh, now he’s saying I don’t wear the American colors to be desecrated like this. I thought the future was supposed to be better about this.” He finally looks away from the TV. 

“It is,” Bucky sighs, pushing a loose strand of hair behind his ear. “But there’s always gonna be bigots out there and we are currently in a… more conservative state.” 

“It’s stupid.” 

“Yep.” He’s cut off from saying anything more as the waiter approaches with their food. The guy looks college aged at best and he’s jumpy, looking at the television and back at them multiple times as he sets their plates down in front of them. He doesn’t ask questions, at least. Bucky’s not exactly in the mood to talk about it. He’s putting on a good front for Steve, he thinks, but the truth is, he’s exhausted and so far beyond stressed out that it’s not even funny. Every time he fucking closes his eyes he sees Steve stepping off that cliff like a movie playing on loop. 

The chicken and cauliflower rice dish Bucky ordered is surprisingly good for how simple it appears to be. He hadn’t even realized he was hungry until he took the first bite but now he’s practically scarfing it down, his stomach growling. Steve is eating at a more sedate pace but he had been snacking most of the day whereas Bucky hasn’t had anything except coffee- too queasy from anxiety to even think of putting anything else in his stomach. 

By the time they leave the restaurant, the party outside has grown exponentially. Most of the children are gone and the street is mostly filled with college kids in costume. It’s loud, it’s chaotic, and there are fog machines and flashing lights. Bucky’s heart rate spikes immediately. 

Steve presses himself against Bucky’s side, cringing hard as firecrackers go off in the distance. “B-Bucky, I don’t like this.” His hand is shaking when Bucky grabs it. 

“I don’t like it either,” Bucky mutters, tensing when someone in the crowd screams. “Let’s get the fuck out of here.” He adjusts his posture to more of the menacing, intimidating walk that he’d used as the Winter Soldier and the crowd parts accordingly as he stalks forward, keeping a tight grip on Steve’s hand. They’re not too far from their hotel, just a couple of blocks but it might as well be miles for how long it seems to take them to get there. 

Bucky flops face first on the bed as soon as they get to their room, groaning and rolling to his back. “I’ve decided I hate Halloween.” 

“I remember you dragging me through several haunted houses that say differently.” Steve toes his shoes off, going to open the bathroom door to let Gucci have free roam of the hotel room again. She’d taken a shit in the floor by the bed last night when they got back to their room from the bar in New Mexico so first thing this morning Bucky had picked up some disposable litter boxes and she was now going to be confined to the bathroom with one any time they were away from the room. 

“I was a child with no self-preservation instincts. And that was a lot different than the crush of people we just walked through.” He pushes himself to his feet to go scoop up the cat from the floor, pressing his face into her fur. “Did you miss me, kitty?” She growls low in her throat and goes limp in his arms. “I missed you too.” 

“So if I leave the bathroom door open am I allowed to take a shower or…?” Steve trails off, scratching the back of his neck as Bucky looks up at him. “I mean, I don’t really care. I just… when Natasha was watching me after- after. She didn’t let me unless she was actually in the room. Um, but she did close her eyes while I was dressing.” 

Bucky sighs, bending over to put Gucci back on the floor. “I would really rather be in the room for the actual shower.” There’s too many risks even though the hotel room is fucking tiny. If Steve had even a razor he could do a lot of damage. “I’ll turn around or close my eyes while you get in and out.” 

“Okay,” Steve goes to his bag and starts pulling out clothes. “Like I said, I don’t care. It’s not like you haven’t seen it all before.” That is true. Their mothers had dumped them in baths together countless times through their childhoods and then they’d been living in each other’s pocket and there was no such thing as privacy in the army. “Coming?” 

Bucky nods, shoving his hands in his pockets and following Steve to the bathroom. He really needs to shower too and technically it would make more sense all around if they just went together rather than him having Steve sit on the counter and talk to him the entire time or something. But he’s not sure if putting themselves in that position wouldn’t end up leading to more. They’re teetering on the edge of something- the strange, smooth flirty side of Steve showing up more and more, the things he says getting bolder and bolder. Bucky has no damn _clue_ where Steve learned to act like that but he can’t really complain either. Nevertheless, he doesn’t want their first time to be in a shower stall. If he had it his way, he’d go full candles and rose petals but that might be a little overboard. 

So he settles himself on the counter and pulls out his phone to text Sam. It’s going to be a long evening. 

***

They get to the Johnson Space Center bright and early the next morning. Frankly, Bucky is already tired of Texas. It’s so goddamn humid that his hair is a frizzy disaster. He’d had to get Steve to French braid it tightly back into two space buns because it wouldn’t fucking do anything else. At least it’s not too hot. He lowers his Gucci sunglasses and stares at the boring looking building. “It looks like the Hawkins Lab from Stranger Things.” 

“I don’t know what that is.” Steve rounds the front end of the van to come up next to him. 

“It’s a show. Shuri made me watch it, it’s good. I’ll show it to you later.” He holds his hand out for Steve to twine their fingers together. “C’mon. Let’s go look at some space shit.” 

He’d bought their tickets online but there’s almost no line so it wouldn’t have mattered if he hadn’t. Everyone’s probably nursing hangovers from the night before. Aside from the two of them, there’s a family with three little kids and an old couple roaming through the exhibits. It’s more fun than the Griffith Observatory had been, more in depth and interactive about the science of space travel. There’s one screen that shows clips of the Battle of New York- something about explaining the motorcycle type ships that the aliens had been flying- that Steve flinches away from, his face going pale. They don’t go back to that section of the museum again. 

They get their pictures taken next to a rocket and inside the space shuttle and in the mission control room from the moon landing. Bucky sends them to Sam and gets back a message that reads _im going to start oppressing you for being a nerd_. That’s fine. He sends back a Spotify link to Rocket Man by Elton John and pockets his phone again. They don’t really have anything else to do for the day so they dawdle, going back to look at some of the exhibits again, hanging around to watch the documentaries that are showing in the theater. It’s still only early afternoon by the time they finally leave. 

They stop by a Whole Foods on the way back to their hotel, roaming aimlessly through the aisles, picking out snacks for the evening. They’ll get something to actually eat at the food bar before they leave but if they’re going to be binge watching a show, they’ll need something for the munchies. Bucky tends more toward things like baby carrots, a selection of nuts from the bulk section, some apples. Steve, on the other hand, goes straight for chocolate chip cookie dough, spicy tortilla chips, and the biggest tub of hummus they have stocked. And between the two of them, they’ll eat it all by tomorrow. He can’t imagine trying to keep up with the grocery bill if they were still on the budget they’d been on before the war. 

Steve cracks open the bottle of iced coffee he’d grabbed as they’re walking out to the van, squinting in the glaring light of the sun. “Hard to believe it’s November here.” The breeze has plastered his white T-shirt against his body. “It’s probably so cold in New York by now.” 

“Well, I guess we’ll find out in about two weeks.” Bucky fishes the car keys out of his pocket as they get near to their parking spot. The good thing about Whole Foods, aside from the fact that they always stock things he can eat, is that they have free ice. When traveling, that’s a fucking gold mine. He packs the cold foods in the ice chest while Steve gets in the car. “Hey, what do you want to do for Thanksgiving?” He slides behind the wheel, turning the key in the ignition and shifting gears. 

“Dunno,” Steve pauses with his coffee halfway to his mouth. “Haven’t really thought about it. What do you want to do?” 

“Sam was texting me last night and invited us to his. He said a bunch of his extended family would be there but we’re still welcome if we want. They might go to the parade for a few hours too.” Bucky braces his right hand on the back of Steve’s seat, twisting to peer out the back window as he reverses out of the parking spot. “We have time to think about it, but it is an option.” 

“Okay.” 

The store isn’t far from their hotel and when they get back to the room, Bucky immediately starts queuing up Stranger Things while Steve trades his jeans for a pair of sweatpants and grabs their lunches from the ice chest. 

He looks uneasy as he crawls under the duvet next to Bucky, glancing at the TV screen. “This isn’t scary, is it?” 

“No, not really.” Bucky pops the lid off of the biodegradable container his lunch is in. “It’s got like… this monster thing. But it’s not a horror movie, not like the ones that Nat made you watch. It’s good, I promise.” He stabs a cherry tomato with his fork and hits play on the first episode. “On a bonus note, this will double as a history lesson on the eighties for you. Well, kind of. I mean they didn’t have monsters running around- other than _me_.”

“You’re not a monster,” Steve glares at him. “You never were.” 

“I was no angel,” He nudges Steve with his elbow. “But at least I wasn’t a Demogorgon. Just watch the show, Steve.” Not like missing a guy getting eaten in the elevator and the opening title sequence really matters but he’d rather not have an argument about his past as the Winter Soldier if he can help it. 

Steve asks a bunch of questions throughout the first episode but by the second, he’s settled in, his head resting on the hollow of Bucky’s shoulder, watching raptly. Gucci wanders over eventually and leaps onto the bed, curling up against Bucky’s left side and falling asleep. By the time they finish the first season it’s getting late and they have to be up early in the morning to drive into New Orleans. It’s not one of the longer drive’s they’ve done so far but it will still be a lot easier if he’s operating on a full night’s sleep. Steve protests a little, entirely hooked on the show, but he does agree that they should sleep so they brush their teeth and actually go to bed. 

Bucky curls up around Steve in the dark, his arm firmly around the blond’s waist and presses a kiss to the back of his neck. “Love you.” It still makes his heart swell in his chest just saying those words. He hopes that feeling never goes away- the pure joy of just loving and being loved in return. 

“Love you more.” 

“Not possible.” 

***

Louisiana is more humid than Texas and a lot swampier. They’d driven over a bridge that had seemed to go on _forever_ through a _massive_ swamp. Steve had pointed out several alligators, though Bucky hadn’t been able to look away from the road long enough to get a look at them. It’s fine, they’ll see more, he’s sure, since they’re going on a swamp boat tour tomorrow. He’s not sure _why_ they’re doing that; it just looked interesting so he booked it. 

When they finally get into New Orleans, he immediately hates it just by the sheer number of No Left Turn signs. Their GPS, of course, apparently doesn’t know about the stupid rule so its directions to the bed and breakfast they’re staying at in the French Quarter are all but useless. Steve is trying to navigate using the map application but that’s not much help either. Bucky’s gripping the steering wheel tightly in his left hand, his teeth gritted as they get more and more lost. And nobody is fucking using their turn signals either. They haven’t even gotten to their hotel yet and he’s already beginning to regret the fact that they’re booked to spend two nights here instead of just one. “Just… fuck!” He lays on the horn when the driver in front of them hits their breaks hard to swing into U-turn, almost causing him to hit them. Not that it has the same effect when the horn plays La Cucaracha but. “Just find out how far we are from the French Quarter and which direction I should be going. We’ll worry about finding the actual place when we get in the right part of town.” 

“Okay, uh…” Steve squints at the phone, zooming in on whatever he’s looking at. “What the fuck, we should have stayed on the interstate it goes right over to it.” 

“Are you kidding me?” Bucky blows out a breath. “The GPS _said_ to exit.” 

“Okay, it looks like Canal Street is in a few intersections. If you turn right on it, it’ll take us there.” Steve soothes, reaching over to pat Bucky’s hand where he’s gripping the gear shift. “It’s okay, we’ll get there.” 

“It was never on the list but cross Louisiana off the list of potential living places.” 

By the time they get to their hotel, he’s so tense that all he wants to do is lie down and nap for the next hour, minimum. His back hurts and he has a headache. Their room has a balcony overlooking the courtyard and he’s sure he’ll find it gorgeous once he’s calmed down from the frustrating drive. When they leave to sightsee tomorrow, they’re taking a streetcar or walking. Maybe it would have been less stressful if they had a more compact, newer car. But theirs is big and clunky and not great for urban driving. It also eats gas like it’s going out of style. Really, once they get back to New York, he’s probably gonna trade it in for something modern and smaller. He presses his left hand in between his shoulder blades, hissing between his teeth. 

“Do you want me to rub your back?” Steve offers, setting the bags he’s carrying down on the couch in their room. He pulls a litter box out of one of them, walking over to set it inside the bathroom, shutting Gucci inside with it and coming back to sit on the bed while he kicks off his shoes. He’s taken to wearing the slides Bucky had convinced him to get quite a lot, preferring them over heavy combat boots. 

Bucky slumps onto the mattress, yawning. “Would you mind?” The idea of a massage is so appealing that he could cry, honestly. 

“Lie down,” Steve nudges him and stands. “I’ll go grab some lotion.” 

He pulls his t-shirt over his head, tossing it to the side as he flips onto his stomach, dragging a pillow down from the head of the bed to prop up on, his arms folded under his head. Steve returns quickly, the _snick_ of the cap on the lotion opening announcing him just seconds before the mattress dips and he straddles the backs of Bucky’s thighs, his weight light enough that it’s obvious he’s keeping most of off of him. He warms the lotion up in his hands first but Bucky still jumps a little at the first firm sweep of his hands. A part of him still wants to be uneasy over his scarring but Steve has shown without a doubt that he truly isn’t put off by them, so he shoves the instinct down and focuses on breathing and not falling asleep as Steve works at the knotted muscles. 

“So, I take it we’re staying in this evening?” Steve teases, digging his fingers into a particularly painful knot. 

Bucky grunts, pressing his forehead against his arm. “Ow.” 

“Sorry,” the pressure eases up slightly. 

“It’s okay,” he sighs. “Yeah. I mean, if you particularly want to go out, then we can.” He lifts his head to look over his shoulder at Steve. His hair is falling in his eyes, his tongue poking out slightly as he focuses on his task. “I saw that they give ghost tours to all the haunted places in the city or something like that. We could do one of those.” 

Steve scowls at him. “You’re hilarious.” 

“Just wait until I get you watching Buzzfeed Unsolved. Then you’ll wish you had taken me up on the offer.” He turns back around, his eyes falling closed while Steve works his way up his back. He can’t fall asleep, not if Steve is going to be staying awake, but he wants to. Eventually Steve shuffles forward so he’s entirely sitting on Bucky’s ass to reach the top of his shoulders and his neck. A hoarse groan escapes him as Steve digs his thumbs into the muscle at the nape of his neck, dragging down and out, over his shoulders. 

Steve stills immediately, his hands burning hot where they rest on Bucky’s skin. “Bad?” 

Fuck, no. Definitely not bad. He arches his spine, pressing into Steve’s touch as best he can. “No… no, do it again.” The pressure had hurt but it was such a good hurt, his head going fuzzy with it. Steve repeats the motion, pressing the sides of his thumbs into the muscle _hard_ and rolling it out. Bucky shudders, pressing his mouth against his forearm to muffle the noises that want to come out. He’s not cold but his entire body is breaking out in goose bumps. “Steve,” he begs, not sure what he’s asking for. 

The night that Steve had painted on his back had affected him, the intimacy of it making his head spin as Steve had gently washed the drying paint from his skin. This makes that pale in comparison. He’s never had someone massage his back, hadn’t even realized how horribly tight the muscles are. Even with his new arm being so much lighter than the Hydra arm had been, it’s still evidently taking its toll. The closer Steve gets to the seam where metal meets flesh, the more Bucky squirms, tears blurring his vision at the relief of the muscles loosening, losing their tension. 

“Buck,” Steve’s hand presses into the middle of his back between his shoulder blades. “You- you gotta be still or else I’m gonna get-” he breaks off, his voice low, gravelly. “You know.” 

Bucky’s mouth goes dry as he immediately stops moving, hardly even daring to breathe. He’s not sleepy anymore. Steve is carefully keeping his weight off of Bucky, up entirely on his knees now. This is… he could apologize and they could brush it off, keep letting the tension grow and stagnate between them with no outlet like it has been for the past couple of weeks. Or….

Or. 

He can reach out and grab ahold of this with both hands because he _wants_ \- they both _want_ \- and why shouldn’t they? He licks his lips, bracing his hands and flipping over onto his back between Steve’s thighs. Steve isn’t expecting the sudden movement, losing his balance as he startles. Bucky sits up, grabbing Steve’s hip to steady him, straddling Bucky’s lap fully now. “Hi.” 

“Hi,” Steve breathes, his pupils blown as he stares down at Bucky. His lotion slick hands rest over Bucky’s chest, no doubt feeling his heart rate picking up pace. 

Bucky cups Steve’s jaw in his hand and looks into his eyes for a long, long time. It’s breathtaking, how he’s looking at Bucky, like he personally hung the moon in the sky. So different from the Steve he had come to know. So much younger, his spirit not killed by the weight of the world yet. Yeah, he’s already been through more than anyone should have to go through but there’s still desperate hope in his cornflower eyes- nearly incandescent with the love in them. He breathes out softly and tilts his head, pressing their lips together. Steve’s lips are chapped and they catch against Bucky’s as he parts them. Not deepening the connection, just gently kissing first his bottom, then his top lip. 

Steve shudders hard as he pulls away. His hands slide up to firmly curl around the back of Bucky’s neck, into his hair, like he’ll fall apart if Bucky gets too far away. “No…” Steve mumbles, long eyelashes resting against beautifully flushed cheeks. The long days in the sun have brought out a light spattering of freckles, so pale that Bucky can only see them when he’s looking this closely. He wants to kiss every single one of them; wants to map and name them like an astronomer discovering constellations. A tiny galaxy, a field of stars across Steve’s nose and cheeks and Bucky’s the only one who gets to explore it. “No, come back. Kiss me again.” 

“Oh, Sweetheart.” Bucky is helpless to resist the desperate, breathy request. When their lips meet this time, his hand is sliding up Steve’s side, rucking up his shirt, and their lips are parted, slick and sliding. Steve is making these pleading _mm mm_ sounds and it makes something deep in Bucky’s chest seize hard. He wants this. Wants to discover every noise he can pull from the blond. Wants to memorize them. “You really want this? Want _me_?”

“Always wanted you, Buck.” Steve’s nose nudges against his. “Always gonna want you. Every version of you. For as long as you’ll let me have you.” 

“Forever’s a long time.” He’s lived through enough years now to feel the ache of immortality. They’ll get old and die eventually, he supposes, but there’s no telling how long it will take. What the world will look like by the time they do. 

“Not to me. Not if it’s with you.” 

Bucky can barely breathe. Steve’s words are so simple and yet they lance some kind of deep, deep wound in him, hurting even as it heals a place he hadn’t even known was broken. He kisses Steve again, almost drunk on the way he tastes. “I’m never gonna love again, Sweetheart. It’s you or it’s nothing. It’s like getting a taste of manna from fuckin’ heaven; nothing else will ever compare. That’s what you are to me. You’re my heaven. My sun and stars and entire goddamn galaxy.” 

Steve all but sobs into his mouth, a single scalding hot tear falling from his eyelashes onto Bucky’s cheekbone, his trembling lips stretching into a smile. “How am I supposed to ever be that poetic? All I can say is I love you. So goddamn much.” 

“That’s poetry enough for me.” Bucky fists his hand in Steve’s shirt, pulling him into a kiss as he falls back against the pillows. Steve’s teeth clash painfully against his own at the impact but neither of them cares enough to pull back. Steve’s tongue lightly runs across the sore spot, as if apologizing, as he braces his arms on either side of Bucky’s head. His blood is heating up in his veins, burning through him, igniting him with the speed of his heartbeat. Steve’s hands are in his hair, tugging, pulling it loose from its bun and when Bucky bites down on his lip, they spasm, fisting _hard_ and it hurts but it’s so good. It’s _so good_. He can’t even remember the last time he was this close to another person. And it’s _never_ felt like this. Like Steve is the sun in supernova and he’s crawling right inside Bucky’s _soul_ and lighting him up, brighter, brighter, brighter. 

He arches up, flipping them, so Steve’s back is to the mattress, his legs draped wide around Bucky’s thighs. Bucky pulls back just far enough to look at him, to take in the swollen lips and flushed skin and glassy eyes. If he were standing, it would be enough to knock him over. He’d spent much of his youth shamefully trying to imagine Steve in this exact position but the images conjured by his hormone fueled mind could _never_ compare to the real thing. Steve looks like an angel, the slatted light spilling in through the blinds on the window making his hair a spun gold halo around his head. His eyes are caught in one of the strips of light, glowing bright blue as the hottest flame. 

Steve reaches a hand up, gripping Bucky’s chin between his thumb and forefinger to pull him down, back to his lips. He traces his tongue along the swollen line of Steve’s lower lip, slipping it into the burning heat of his mouth. When Steve’s lips close around it and suck, he shudders all over, his left hand grasping blindly for Steve’s thigh to pull it higher against his side, tight against his hip as his body arches down. Steve is just as hard as he is, the friction tearing a gasp from both of them. 

The thing is, Bucky grew up in a Jewish household. He went to synagogue because it was what his family did, what he was expected to do. But he had never believed in it, not the way that Steve and Sarah Rogers had believed in their God and Saints with a reverence he had never understood. Not until now. They’ve learned too well that there’s no higher power out there coming to save them but he could find himself religious again if it meant his church was this. Right here. Cleaving to the divine, desperate way Steve whispers his name. Drunk on the way he tastes- artificial watermelon like the candy he’d had in the car- and the smell of him. It’s just the same shampoo they’ve been using the entire trip but he swears he’ll never be able to smell it the same way again. 

“Mm… Bucky,” Steve mumbles between fevered kisses. “Buck… Bucky, wait. Stop.” 

Bucky’s heart flies into his throat at the words and he wrenches himself away from Steve, scooting all the way back to the foot of the bed. His hands off the blond entirely even though it hurts like a physical thing to stop touching him for even a second. “Steve?” His body is screaming _wrong, wrong, wrong_ at the lack of contact, sick with it. 

“Wh-” Steve pushes himself up on his elbows, his features crumpling. “Bucky, I didn’t mean _move away_. Come back,” he pats the wrinkled bed sheets next to him. 

Bucky cautiously moves back up the bed, lying down in the empty space. On his side so he and Steve are face to face. “What’s wrong? Is it… too much? Too strange?” He’ll try his best to understand if it is, even if the thought of having it and then having to give it up again is like his chest is being torn apart from the inside out. 

“No, Bucky. God, no.” Steve winces, reaching for Bucky’s hand. But his eyes are darting everywhere, looking at anything other than Bucky. He sucks his swollen, spit slick lower lip between his teeth and breathes out shaky before finally meeting his gaze. “B-before this goes any further. I have to tell you something. And I should have told you before but I was scared. Hell, I’m still scared but I can’t keep putting it off because there’s no way to keep it hidden. And I don’t want to keep it hidden. I don’t. I’m just nervous that you’ll think differently of me for it or-”

“Steve,” Bucky shifts his handhold so he can bring the blond’s up to his hair. “ _Breathe_.” Because he isn’t. He’s spilling out his words in a nervous rush and not pausing to suck in any air. “Whatever it is, we’ll work through it, okay?” The words are so similar to the conversation they’d had, freezing next to the drop off at the Canyon. And that was only a few days ago; _fuck_ , what are they doing? He’s a logical person, he knows it’s probably nothing like that, but still, neither one of them are anywhere near over the trauma of that moment. It’s probably something about Steve being inexperienced, it’s _fine_. No need to panic yet. “It’s probably not even an issue. I mean,” he grins, teasing, even though his throat is dry and he’s barely keeping his nerves in check. “I’ve seen you naked before. I know about all your birthmarks- even the one on your ass.” 

“Thanks for that,” Steve rolls his eyes. “If only it were as simple as birthmark insecurity.” 

“Well, like I said. Whatever it is, we’ll work through it. I _love_ you, okay? Nothing you say to me can change that.” 

“I didn’t really get any good art commissions or other odd jobs back in the day, back in Brooklyn.” 

He’s had years to become familiar with all of Steve’s facial expressions, to know what every tic of muscle means. Right now, he’s somewhere between the asthma attack face and the puke face. “Um, I’m not exactly sure what that has to do with the conversation at hand, Steve, but thank you for sharing it with me.” He pauses and lets the memories wash over him. The late nights when Steve would come in tired and dirty and hoarse from breathing paint fumes but smiling with money in his pocket to put toward rent or food or medicine. The way Steve had choked on his coffee when Bucky had brought up the commissions in an offhand way a few days ago. “Hang on. Then how did you-”

Steve screws up his face, his eyes squeezing shut. “I have to tell you that because I actually made my money by whoring myself out to men by the docks,” he blurts out the words in a jumbled rush. “And I can’t- I _won’t_ pretend to not know what I’m doing or to let you think I’m a virgin or… Bucky?” 

Okay, _maybe_ Bucky isn’t exactly breathing. But he’s fine, he’s absorbing and processing this information and he’s fine. 

“Bucky?” Steve’s hand is shaking as he drops it from Bucky’s hair to cup his jaw. “Talk to me.” 

“Did they hurt you?” It’s the only thing he can think of to say, the only thing that really matters. He can’t change the past. It would be shitty of him to even think of being angry at Steve for doing what he thought he had to do to keep up with his part of the money. And in retrospect, the reveal of this information makes so many things start to make sense. The suave, flirty side of Steve that he’s barely seen- this is why that side of him exists. Or at least, it’s why he knows how to work it, how to seduce with the simplest actions. He reaches up, covers Steve’s hand with his own, breathing out steady. 

“What?” 

“Did any of them ever make you do anything you didn’t choose to do? Did they _hurt_ you? I don’t- I can’t say that I don’t care about the rest, because I do and I wish you hadn’t felt like you needed to do that to make money. We could have managed; I could have made it work. But I can make my peace with it because the past is the past and we’re not there anymore and we never will be again. But Stevie,” he turns his head, presses a feather light kiss against Steve’s palm. “I don’t want to do anything that might trigger some horrible memory. So you gotta tell me what not to do. And if the answer to that is drop the question and take a cold shower, that’s fine too. All I care about is that _you’re_ okay.” 

Steve is staring at him, eyes wide and blinking fast, something like wonder shining on his face. “Yasha Barinov, _I love you_ ,” he breathes and kisses Bucky _hard_. The use of his given name is startling, not something he really expected to ever hear again. But it’s not unwelcome, all the breath rushing out of him at once, the bittersweet ache of _home_. 

It’s all teeth and firm hands when Steve shoves Bucky onto his back and climbs over him again. He pulls back, just a breath, just far enough to say, “Someone taught me how to throw a damn good punch and that made me one of the lucky ones. Nobody hurt me. I did what I wanted and not a thing more.” His mouth is a burning trail of heat as he kisses down the line of Bucky’s throat and scrapes his teeth over his Adam’s apple. Bucky gasps, his hips arching up against Steve’s. “And I was good, Bucky,” Steve’s voice has taken on a higher, breathier tone that has Bucky shuddering under him. “I was so good. I was always a fast learner, you know, and I learned _so much_. But I think it’s easier to show than tell, yeah?” 

Bucky can only manage a punched out groan before Steve is kissing him again, calloused fingers kneading at his pecs, catching on his nipples. He hisses, sensitive and Steve grins against his mouth, pulling away with a wet sound. His hair is loose over his forehead, their faces so close that it brushes Bucky’s skin as they suck in air. Bucky brings his hands to the hem of Steve’s shirt, pushing at it. “Off. Take it off.” 

“Yeah,” Steve breathes, sitting up straighter. He grabs the back of his t-shirt, yanking at the collar, trying to pull it off. And obviously gets stuck because today his shirt is so ridiculously tight, it’s almost obscene. “Um.” 

“Do you need help?” Bucky teases, eyeing the expanse of abs. While he would like to get on with the kissing again, he can’t complain about the view. He reaches out and traces the V of Steve’s hips where it disappears beneath his jeans, just a feather light touch with his left forefinger. Steve jumps at the touch, his half moan muffled by the shirt stuck around his head. 

“Could you…?”

“Yep.” Bucky sits up, fisting his left hand in the material and ripping it clean off. He tosses the shreds of fabric in the floor, smirking when Steve gapes at him. His blond hair is sticking up in all directions, his entire face flushed pink. “What?” 

“I _liked_ that shirt, you jerk.” 

“So did I,” he hums, leaning in to nip Steve’s bottom lip sharply. “I just like it better off of you. I’ll buy you another one.” 

Steve’s mouth falls open against his, his burning hands touching everywhere he can reach. One wedges between them, spreading out over Bucky’s stomach muscles, the other moving up to pinch his nipple. Bucky pulls away with a gasp, burying his face in the crook of Steve’s neck. He sinks his teeth lightly into the muscle there, rewarded by a low groan and Steve’s hips grinding down against his. Bucky’s only in sweatpants, the friction too much and not enough all at once. He drops his hands to Steve’s hips, guiding him to press down harder, faster, as he bites a trail of marks from the curve of Steve’s shoulder to the hollow between his collar bones. Steve’s head falls back, gasping with each love bite Bucky sucks into his skin, his hands flying up to fist in Bucky’s hair. 

“B-B-Bucky,” Steve tugs his hair, hard enough to pull him away from the expanse of skin he’s trying to explore, trying to worship. “I want-”

“What do you want? You can have it.” He’s pretty sure there’s not a damn thing he would say no to at this point. The way Steve says his name makes his head spin, makes him forget anything else exists outside this room, outside the two of them. He could stay here forever, could relish the desperate sharp hunger of lust- always there and yet never satisfied- because all he can think is _finally_. If this is all he gets, he’ll drink it up like pomegranate wine and it will be enough. 

“I want to suck you off.” 

Okay, he can get behind that idea too. He looks up at Steve in shock, his eyelids heavy. A brief smirk is all the warning he gets before Steve is reaching between them, gripping the shape of Bucky’s dick tightly through his sweatpants. “Steve,” Bucky gasps, his hands slamming down to brace himself against the mattress. He squeezes his eyes shut, wetting his lower lip as Steve strokes him through the fabric. When the pressure disappears he nearly cries in dismay. “Wh-”

Steve pushes him back into the pillows with one shove of his hand against Bucky’s chest. He stops straddling Bucky to kneel between his legs instead, his fingers curling under the waistband of his pants. He bites his lower lip, looking up at Bucky through his lashes. “Let me?” 

“Please,” Bucky begs. 

In one smooth motion, Steve strips the pants off of him, leaving him bare. He tosses the fabric to the side, his gaze not leaving Bucky even once. It’s soft, almost reverent, the way he looks at him, the way he starts to touch him. He doesn’t go straight for Bucky’s cock, instead running his hands up his calves as he starts to shuffle forward. He pauses to lift Bucky’s leg, turning his head to kiss an old, silvery bullet scar just above his knee. Some memento of a long past mission. He sucks a love bite into the meat of Bucky’s inner thigh, the heat of his mouth and the heady rush of having it so close to where he really wants it making him throw his head back against the pillows with a dry sob. 

“Bucky, you’re so beautiful.” Steve curves his hands around Bucky’s hips, thumbs tracing over the V of muscle, so near where his cock is curving up against his abdomen, the crown glistening. “Did you know? Always thought you were, but this… you’re a dream brought to life. All mine.” 

“All yours.” Bucky agrees, reaching out to trace his finger over Steve’s swollen lips. “All mine.” 

“I love you,” Steve kisses the tip of his finger and then pins his wrist to the bed as he drops his head to lick a burning stripe up Bucky’s dick. 

He gasps, embarrassingly loud, his hips arching. Steve releases his wrist in favor of holding his hips against the bed, keeping him there with one hand and fisting Bucky’s cock with the other, tilting it to a better angle for him to sink his mouth down over the head. Bucky sobs, his left hand reaching up, over his head to clench around a pillow. “Baby, _please_ ,” he combs his flesh fingers through Steve’s bangs, pushing them away from his forehead so he has a better view of Steve’s lust blown eyes watching him reverently. His mouth is so hot, scorching around Bucky as he bobs his head, taking him deeper. His hand jerks at the base, the saliva dripping down the shaft enough to make the motion smooth, pleasurable instead of dry and chafing. Bucky’s chanting Steve’s name like a prayer, like benediction. 

Steve’s eyes flutter closed, lashes resting against his cheekbones as he pulls off to suck in a breath and then- oh _and then_ \- he swallows Bucky down to the root, moaning hoarsely around him. 

“ _Fuck_ ,” Bucky slams his head against the pillows, his back arching, his knees pulling up towards his chest. Steve pulls away again, just long enough to pull Bucky’s legs over his shoulders, to keep him there with firm hands grasping the bend where his thighs meet his hips, and sucks him down again. Bucky will never, _ever_ have anything bad to say about what Steve had been doing to learn this because he’s pretty sure his soul is leaving his body. He wants to throw his head back, wants to squeeze his eyes shut and cry out and lose himself but he can’t look away from Steve. He can see the outline of his dick when Steve hollows his cheeks, sucking hard enough to make black spots dance across Bucky’s vision. 

He’s not going to last, there’s no way he’s going to last. The muscles in his stomach are clenching, his thighs trying to squeeze around Steve’s head as he swears and grunts and begs for more. Steve looks _wrecked_ , his eyes reddened and watery, but he doesn’t stop. There’s spit smeared around his mouth, messy and artless from how desperately he’s sucking Bucky down- like this alone gets him off too. He’s making these noises, choked off, vibrating around Bucky’s cock. Every few bobs of his head, he’ll pull off entirely to gasp, to breathe, never long enough to even get a good lungful of air before he’s diving back down again. 

Bucky’s had a good number of blow jobs in his life, but none even come close to comparing to this. Maybe it’s just the sheer fact that it’s _Steve_ that makes it so goddamn good- though no one could deny the skill that Steve is putting into it. “Steve-” he tugs on the blond’s hair, trying to get him to pull back. “Baby, I’m n- I’m not gonna last.” 

Steve pulls off, one of his hands pinning Bucky’s cock up against his stomach, out of the way so he can mouth at the tight weight of his balls. “The serum let you go more than once?” His voice is _so gone_ , broken and hoarse from having Bucky down his throat over and over. 

“Yeah,” Bucky gasps, biting down on his lower lip hard enough to taste blood. 

“Then come in my mouth,” Steve says and swallows him down to the root again. 

Bucky finally squeezes his eyes closed, sobbing as Steve’s burning throat constricts around him as he swallows. His abs clench down, almost painfully. “Steve, Stevie,” he pleads, _prays_ , “I can’t- oh _fuck_.” He can barely feel his body, his limbs lit up, burning through the veins from his fingers and toes like fuses on fireworks, ready to ignite. Steve’s breathing roughly through his nose, letting Bucky’s hand on the back of his head set his pace. His thighs tremble, held in place by Steve’s hand as he thrusts his hips up- once, twice, _three times_ , and comes with a desperate “ _Oh!_ ” His entire body curves up, hugging Steve’s head tightly to him as his eyes roll back. Steve gags, he thinks, but his ears are ringing and his vision is whiting out and Steve doesn’t try to pull away. Bucky _hurts_ with how good it is, how Steve swallows and swallows around him, taking every drop and suckling like he could coax out more. 

As Bucky slumps back against the mattress, boneless and sated, Steve pulls off of him and releases his legs to kiss his way up Bucky’s chest. “How was that?” He breathes, kissing across Bucky’s collarbones. 

“Y-your fucking _mouth,_ ” Bucky slurs. His arm is heavy, leaden with his relaxed muscles as he fumbles to pull Steve up, to get at that wonderful, _wonderful_ mouth. He can taste himself, salty on Steve’s tongue when it slips past his lips, slick against his own. 

“That’ll be five bucks, mister.” Steve jokes into the kiss, his hands pushing Bucky’s sweaty hair away from his face. 

“No way,” Bucky scoffs, pulling back to look at him. “I wouldn’t give any less than five _million_ and that still feels like I’m scrimping.” His energy is coming back, the serum refractory period so short that he’s already getting hard again, running his hands back and forth against the small of Steve’s back, just above the waistband of his jeans. The front is tented obscenely from how hard Steve’s dick is straining against the fabric. “Unfortunately as I am disrobed, I have no cash on me. Would you take a hand with this,” he slides his right hand around to grind the heel of his palm hard against Steve’s erection, “instead?” 

“I’m not five million good, Buck.” Steve moans, his hips pressing up into Bucky’s touch. “But I’ll take what I can get.” 

“How about you tell me what you _really_ want?” There’s no way he’s following up the mind blowing orgasm that Steve had given him with a shitty hand job. He may not be a professional at sex, but he’s no blushing virgin either. 

Steve’s eyes flutter closed, his teeth white against the swollen, red curve of his lip. “I want you inside me.” 

All in all, this may be the best day of Bucky’s _entire life_. He chokes out an, “Oh, God,” and lunges forward to kiss Steve, desperate and aching. Steve shudders against his lips, his teeth catching on the healing place Bucky had split, the iron taste of blood on both of their tongues. Bucky fumbles at Steve’s fly, working the button and zipper open far enough to shove his hand down the front of Steve’s briefs. His cock is hot in Bucky’s palm, slick from how much pre-come he’s leaking, his thumb running over the vein on the underside. “Yeah, I can do that.” 

Steve’s hips jerk, fucking up into Bucky’s fist and he moans hoarsely. “L-lotion should be- somewhere. You ever do this before?” 

“Yeah, a few times.” Not often, but he had fooled around with a few guys back in the day. Enough to know his way around and know what he’s doing. “I’m not fucking you with _lotion_ , Steve.” 

“And I’m not fucking you dry. You gotta get it wet.” 

“I _know_ ,” Bucky kisses him again, gently, and pulls his hand away. “I would never hurt you. But another great thing about the future is there are a lot better options in slick, Baby, and lotion ain’t it.” 

Steve sits back on his heels. “But do we have any of those better options at hand though, Buck?” 

Bucky holds up one finger and twists onto his stomach, leaning over the edge of the bed, glad he had dumped his bag in the floor so close. He slides open one of the zippers and fishes around in the dark pocket until his hand finds the tube of lubricant. He’d taken to carrying it around after the helicarriers, when he’d still had his Hydra arm. Without regular maintenance, the plates had jammed and stuck. The lube helped keep it loose. He hasn’t had any sort of problem like that with his Wakandan arm, but he’d packed a tube anyway, just in case. Also wishful thinking. He sits back up, holding the tube aloft. “Ta da.” 

“Confident, are we?” Steve teases and takes the lube from him, flipping open the cap to squeeze a tiny dollop out. He rubs it between his fingers, testing. “Yeah, okay. This’ll do just fine.” He tosses the bottle back to Bucky and wastes no time stripping off his jeans and underwear. 

An honest to god squeak escapes Bucky when Steve tosses his pants aside and turns over, on elbows and knees, presenting himself. Like a present. All for Bucky. “Guh,” he manages, sucking his lower lip into his mouth. But as much as he loves the view, and god _damn_ does he love the view, this isn’t how he wants it. He wants to be able to see Steve, watch every facial expression as he falls apart on Bucky’s fingers and then on his cock. Steve is evidently going at this in a way that he knows, in a way that he learned when he was paid to do so, by men who were only after their own pleasure. Bucky wants more than that for them. “Steve, no.” he tugs at the side of the blond’s hip, flipping him over onto his back. “Like this. I want to _see_ you.” 

Steve frowns, looking up at him. “But it’s easier if-”

“I say I give a damn about easier?” Bucky kisses him, licking into his mouth. “I want to see you,” he repeats. “If I get a sore wrist, then so be it. I love you.” He flips the lube open, squeezing it messy over his fingers. He kisses Steve while it warms up, before finally, finally reaching his hand down. Steve’s legs fall open at the first brush of his fingers. 

“Yeah, please,” he breathes, breaking their kiss to look down at where Bucky’s fingers are circling the pucker of his hole. “C’mon, Buck, I want it.” 

Bucky sucks and kisses his way down Steve’s chest, closing his mouth around one of Steve’s nipples as he pushes one finger just barely into the tight heat of him. Steve lets out a strangled whine, his hips shoving down and his hands reaching up to tangle in Bucky’s hair, holding his mouth against his chest. He laves at the nipple with his tongue, his left hand moving up to pinch the neglected one. 

Whether it’s the serum or sheer want and a practiced body, Steve takes his first finger easily in one slide and demands, “ _More_.” 

And that’s just…. Bucky lifts his head to look up at Steve, to meet his hooded eyes. “God, you’re so fuckin’ sexy.” 

“Want you _bad_ ,” Steve licks his lips, his voice a near whisper. “Every time, _every time_ , I always imagined it was you. Want you so bad, Bucky, _please_.” 

God, he can’t say things like that and not expect it not to go to Bucky’s head. To make him lose his fucking mind. He pulls his finger out, ignoring how Steve whines in protest. “Let me ask you something, Baby.” 

“What?” Steve frowns at him, his hips shifting, searching. 

“Anyone ever put their mouth on you?” 

“Oh, God.” Blue eyes flutter closed, his face strained. “No.” 

Good. Bucky will at least get to have one of his firsts. “Would you like to?” 

“ _Fuck_ ,” Steve breathes, looking at him, pupils blown. He already looks fucked out and they’ve barely gotten started. “Yeah. I want that. Please.” 

Bucky smirks at him and starts to kiss his way down Steve’s heaving chest. He pauses at each ab to suck marks into the skin that will disappear before the morning, but they look gorgeous now. He traces his tongue over V lines and kisses the wet head of Steve’s cock- that makes him writhe and plead but it’s not his goal-. Sonnets could probably be written about Steve’s ass. It’s so round and muscled. Bucky lightly kisses the strawberry birthmark at the bottom of Steve’s right ass cheek and pushes his legs up. “Hold these up,” He instructs, guiding Steve to wrap his hands around the backs of his thighs. He’s never actually done this with a guy before, but he’s read about it and it can’t be that different from putting his mouth on a girl. He’s done that plenty of times before- back when he was still denying everything that he is. He would take them home and then he would never be able to get it up, but he didn’t want to leave them unsatisfied. So he would put his mouth on them, taking at least some pleasure in the fact that _they_ were enjoying themselves. 

Steve’s hole is slick from the lube, spasming around nothing. Bucky rubs his middle finger over it, smirking at the choked off noise that Steve makes, and leans forward to put his tongue there instead. The lube is flavorless, so the only thing he tastes is Steve, the salt of his skin. Steve sucks in a sharp breath at the first lap of his tongue, whining high in his throat. Bucky digs his fingers into the meat of Steve’s ass, kneading and spreading the muscle as he darts his tongue against that holy pucker, again and again. 

“ _Bucky_ ,” Steve is writhing, his thighs already quaking, panting out these desperate moans and gasps. “Oh _God_.”

He reaches blindly for the lube, slathering it over his fingers. Steve nearly comes off the bed with a shriek when Bucky slips them inside and hooks the tip of his tongue against Steve’s rim. He pins Steve’s hips to the bed with his metal hand and curves his fingers up to press against his prostate. 

“ _Fuck_ ,” Steve shouts, his legs falling wide against the mattress when he releases them to throw his hands up and grab the headboard. “Bucky, _now_ ,” he begs, desperate, wanton. “Fuck me _now_.”

“I’m bigger than two fingers, Baby.” He leans back to look down at what he’s doing, spreading his fingers out against the tight muscle. Steve’s ass is like a vice, contracting around him. 

“I don’t _care_ ,” he begs, tears on his lashes when their eyes meet. “ _Please_.”

“No.” He’s not going to risk hurting him, serum healing or not. He still feels fucking awful about breaking his wrist, even though it had been an accident and he wouldn’t take it back if it meant the alternative outcome. 

“B-” Steve gets out, his eyes squeezing shut, but whatever he had been about to get say gets swallowed on his gasp of breath as Bucky pulls his fingers out and fucks them back in, slipping in a third. His rim strains, fluttering around the intrusion as Bucky presses those fingers into him again and again, twisting against the prostate and spreading on the slide out. His cock is curving angry and red against his stomach, but Steve makes no move to jerk it, his fists so tight on the slats of the headboard that Bucky can see the wood starting to splinter. So be it. It’ll be _well_ worth whatever fine he gets charged. 

When he starts to press in with four fingers, Steve reaches down and shoves his hand away, grabbing Bucky by the arms and flipping them so he’s flat on his back and Steve is straddling him. “Now,” Steve pants, grabbing the bottle of lube. He slicks it over Bucky’s cock, raising up on his knees as he angles it up. “I’m ready.” 

Bucky can barely breathe with what’s about to happen, even as the head of his dick presses blunt against Steve’s hole. “Steve,” He curls his hands around Steve’s hips as he starts to sink down as his body gives and Bucky sinks into that tight, _tight_ heat. “Love you, love you so goddamn much,” he gasps. Steve’s brows are pinched, his mouth puckered in a red O and his head tipped back and he works himself lower and lower onto Bucky. When he’s fully seated, they’re both shaking, trembling minutely. Bucky’s chest is heaving with the effort it takes not to plant his feet against the mattress and fuck up into Steve immediately. 

Steve finally opens his eyes, moaning as he shifts his weight and reaches down to grab Bucky by the back to his neck, to pull him up into a kiss. It’s more panting into each other’s mouth than anything, but it’s the best thing Bucky’s ever experienced. “You feel,” Steve lifts up, just slightly, just enough to slam back down in a move that makes stars dance behind Bucky’s eyes, “ _so_ good. Love you. Love this.” 

“Wait, wait,” Bucky shudders, stilling Steve’s movements. “I- you gotta give me a minute or I’m gonna- you’re so _tight_.” He might as well be a virgin now for all that it matters. It’s been so, _so_ long since he’s buried himself in another’s body like this. He’d forgotten how overwhelming it all is, how tight the squeeze. Steve’s body is so _hot_ , scorching around him. He could almost cry. 

“Buck,” Steve pleads, burying his face against Bucky’s neck, his breath hot and shaky against his skin. He’s mostly stopped his movements, but his hips still twitch, rock back and forth like he can’t help it. Like he needs Bucky that badly. “Please, please, please-”

God, he’s gonna go mad, he’s going to completely lose himself in this moment, in Steve and he doesn’t even care. As long as he has this, _nothing_ else matters. He shifts them, lifting Steve up so he can get his knees under him and start thrusting into that glorious heat, his hands pulling Steve down on his cock over and over and over. 

Steve’s back arches, his nails digging into Bucky’s shoulder blades. “ _Fuck_ , fuck, Bucky,” he meets every thrust, his head tipped back. “Oh my _god_ , yeah.” 

It’s good, it’s so good, but it’s not enough. Bucky licks a stripe up Steve’s neck, scraping his teeth against the underside of his jaw. He wants to be able to get his hand on Steve’s dick, neglected between them. He flips them, shoving Steve gracelessly into the mattress. They bounce a little but their rhythm doesn’t break, Steve reaching up for him, pulling him into a kiss that’s all teeth. “C’mon, Baby, c’mon.” He drapes Steve’s legs around his hips, waiting for the blond to get the memo and lock his ankles around Bucky’s lower back. When he does, he uses his left hand to set a brutal pace, his right reaching between them, jerking Steve in time with his thrusts. When the angle changes and Bucky hits Steve’s prostate for the first time, Steve _wails_. Bucky’s mouth drops open, his hips stuttering. “Holy shit.” 

“You feel so good,” Steve throws his hands up to grab the headboard again. His eyes are tightly shut, entire face flushed. He’s so goddamn greedy for it, taking everything Bucky gives him and begging for more. “Bucky-”

“Yeah?” Bucky’s hair is falling in his eyes, he can’t be bothered to spare a hand to push it away. 

“ _Harder_.”

This is definitely where he dies. Steve’s gonna fuckin’ kill him. Life can’t feel this _good_ and possibly carry on as normal afterwards. “I got you.” Steve’s crying out so much with each thrust there’s no doubt every other patron of the hotel is hearing him. Bucky doesn’t give a _shit_. They’ve waited lifetimes for this, crossed universes for this. Let Steve be as loud as he goddamn wants and everyone should feel _lucky_ to hear him. He fucks in harder, faster, hitting Steve’s prostate on every thrust. He fists Steve’s cock, sliding his thumb against the slit. “You gonna come, Steve?” He can’t hold out much longer, his body burning with the effort of keeping his orgasm at bay. 

“Yeah,” Steve gasps, his eyes rolling back, just a little. “Oh, God, just… please, _please_ ….”

Bucky leans up to press his forehead against Steve’s and fucks in once, twice, three more times. And Steve clamps down around him; squeezing so tight Bucky couldn’t move away even if he wanted to. His thighs are hard as a rock, locked around Bucky’s waist. Bucky watches reverently as his face scrunches up, as he goes silent, his lips forming Bucky’s name. And then he’s arching up with one last, desperate cry as his dick pulses in Bucky’s hand, spilling hot between them. 

He can’t hold out any longer, leaning down to seal his mouth over Steve’s as his entire body seizes up and he starts to come, fucking Steve through his own orgasm. He’s fucking weightless, lighter than he’s been maybe in his entire life. It’s not supposed to feel like this, he thinks, like the universe is finally righting itself through their coupling. But it does, it feels like fucking soaring, like this is everything they’re meant to be doing. He never wants to be anywhere else. 

Steve clings to him, gulping in noisy gasps of air as they come down from their highs. “Bucky,” he whispers. 

“Mm?” Bucky kisses his chin, the curve of his neck, soft brushes of his lips over the marks he bit into that same skin earlier in the heat of the moment. He’s still buried deep in Steve, but the blond is holding onto him so tightly he couldn’t move away if he tried. 

“Marry me.” 

He freezes, his heart all but stopping in his chest as he registers the words. _Marry me_. Like… like permanence, like devotion, like _this is my person and I want them forever_. He pulls back, far enough to look at Steve. He’s watching Bucky solemnly- as solemnly as one can be while still looking thoroughly fucked- his teeth worrying his lower lip. “What?” Bucky breathes, eyes wide. 

“I’m asking you,” Steve’s hands move to cup his jaw, his thumbs rubbing across Bucky’s cheekbones, “to marry me, Bucky Barnes. Because if I get to have forever with you, I want to spend it calling you my husband. That’s the greatest gift this new future could ever give me.” 

Bucky sucks in a shaky breath, squeezing his eyes tight against the burn of tears. “You have the strangest sense of timing, Stevie.” Part of him wants to tease, wants to throw out something like _‘you’re not even gonna get down on one knee?’_ , but given their current position, it’s probably not the best joke he could come up with. And he doesn’t want to turn it into a joke, not really. This is… he’d always imagined himself being the one asking, but now that the question is out there between them, he wouldn’t have it any other way. 

Steve leans up, kisses him so, _so_ softly. “Is that a yes or no?” 

“ _Yes_.” How could he possibly ever say anything else? This is everything he ever wanted, being presented to him on a silver platter, like he’s worth it. Like he deserves it. “Steve, I- of _course_ I’ll marry you.” 

“Okay,” Steve sighs happily, kissing him again, his legs finally loosening from their death grip around Bucky’s hips. “Now get out of me or else we’re about to start round two- oh _shit_ -”

***

They do end up getting a noise complaint. 

Not that either one of them particularly cares, but by the time it comes in, they’ve exhausted themselves anyway so they just go to bed, to _sleep_. Bucky could frankly come up with _much_ better things they could be doing than spending the day on a boat in the swamp, but the tour is already booked so they force themselves out of the hotel- not before Bucky gets his chance to suck Steve off in the shower though, the water pounding down around them like rain. 

There’s a chill breeze, but the sun is shining and it’s muggy out. Steve steps up into Bucky’s space as they stand in the line to board the tour boat, the bulk of their bodies hiding the way he gropes Bucky’s ass. “Why are we doing this again?” Steve whispers, his lips brushing the shell of Bucky’s ear. 

Bucky breathes out shaky, twisting to frown at Steve disapprovingly. He _really_ doesn’t relish the idea of trying to conceal a hard on all afternoon. “To see alligators.” 

“I already saw alligators though,” Steve blinks at him innocently. 

“Well, I didn’t, so,” he pokes Steve’s shoulder, “just stop what you’re doing right now. You’re trying to seduce me and it’s not going to work.” 

“Honey, you haven’t even _seen_ me when I’m actually trying.” 

“Jesus Christ,” he says, his eyes fluttering shut. If this is not trying, he can’t imagine what is. “We’re going on the damn boat ride.” Although the more Steve talks, the more he’s convinced they should definitely just go back to the hotel right now and call it a day. 

“Okay, I hear your argument _but_ consider this- we could be going on a different kind of ride.” Steve’s got a giant, impish grin on his face as he nudges Bucky to step forward. They’re holding up the line. 

“You already did, brat.” He flops down in a seat near the back of the bus. If Steve is gonna do his level best to get them in trouble, then he can do his best to damage control. He’s not about to get kicked off the boat once they’re out in the middle of the swamp. He lifts his arm as Steve sits next to him, already leaning into Bucky’s side. “That’s what you are, an insatiable, greedy brat.” 

“And you _loooove_ it.” 

He does. He loves it so bad. 

There’s a pair of teenage girls sitting across the aisle from them and one of them leans over and taps Steve’s arm, blushing. “Sorry, I just wanted to say y’all are really cute together.” 

“Thank you,” Steve beams. He leans toward her, his voice dropping to a stage whisper. “I’m gonna marry him.” 

Bucky breaks into a stupid grin, biting his lower lip. It’s no doubt written all over his face, how goddamn in love he is. He can’t even look away from Steve. Doesn’t want to. It’s like he’s been asleep his whole life and Steve has finally brought him the sunrise. Golden rays of light. That’s what love is. It makes every moment he’s lived in the dark worth it. 

Six hours later, he gets a text from Sage. It’s a screenshot of a tweet that reads **i met captain america and bucky barnes today and LITERALLY they are getting married they kept flirting and cap was gushing about their engagement like stfu gays we’ve won again from now on pride month is also in november**. She follows it up with **???? yall are getting MARRIED????**

Bucky throws his phone at Steve, “You let the cat out of the bag before I even got to tell my friends.” 

Steve catches the phone out of the air without even looking at it, all of his concentration on whatever he’s drawing. He won’t let Bucky see it yet, hugging the sketchpad to his chest whenever he asks. “No, the cat is in your lap. Which is where I could be. But you wanted to get a cat. And it’s in your lap. So I’m not.” 

“You were drawing! And ignoring me!” Bucky hugs Gucci to his chest. She hadn’t been very happy about being banished to the bathroom all of yesterday but she got over it when he offered her a handful of treats. But she’s been sticking close to him ever since and won’t go in the bathroom to use the litter box if either one of them are anywhere near the door. 

“Blame it on me, why don’t you?” Steve tsks, finally looking down at the phone. “Yikes,” he says mildly. “Sage is demanding to be your maid of honor since you left her to find out from Twitter instead of telling her yourself when she was the one who was there for you when you had a gay crisis in the thrift store.” He looks up. “You had a gay crisis in a thrift store?” 

“My _life_ is a gay crisis.” Bucky leans over to grab the phone back. He types out **sry i was distracted will explain more in depth when i get back to nyc prob the 14th??** with one hand and then puts the phone on do not disturb. “Okay, check in. How’re your thoughts?” 

“They’re saying,” Steve flips his sketchbook shut, setting it on the nightstand, “suck Bucky off.” 

“ _Steve_ , I’m serious.” 

“So am I.” Steve blows his bangs off his forehead. “I’m good, Bucky, I’m _really_ good. I promise. Now will you let me…?”

He does look good, much better than he did a few days ago. His cheeks have this rosy glow to them, and he’s been smiling all day, his eyes sparkling. “You want it?” 

“Yeah,” Steve crawls toward him. 

“Okay, put Gucci in the bathroom first.” He holds the cat out in the space between them. She hisses and writhes, trying to get free. 

“ _Noooo_ ,” Steve whines, rearing back. “Don’t make me touch her. She _hates_ me, she’s looking at me like she’s going to bite my face off as soon as I go to sleep.” 

“I’m not having sex with her in here.” He loves her, he does, but she does have a rather alarming stare and he’d rather not mix the two in his mind. 

“You put her in the bathroom then.” 

“No, then she’ll hate me. If she already dislikes you it won’t matter if you’re the bad guy that locks her up.” Bucky widens his eyes at Steve, holding the cat even further toward him. “How bad do you want it, Steve?” 

Steve groans, rubbing his hands over his face. “ _Fine_.” He huffs and grabs Gucci from Bucky’s hold, scrambling off the bed and all but running toward the bathroom. 

“I love you,” Bucky calls after him. 

“Yeah, fuck you too,” Steve says, more to the cat than Bucky. 

Bucky rolls over onto his stomach, opening the camera on his phone to start recording Steve fighting to get the bathroom door shut as Gucci does her level best to escape. They may or may not end up getting around to anything, but this is gold too. Maybe he’ll get an Instagram account. If they’re gonna be public about their relationship anyway, why shouldn’t he show off? He’s definitely not the only one that will get a kick out of Steve wrestling with a cat and losing. He’s the only one that gets to have him though. 

Yeah, being in love is pretty great after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i aint even got shit to say other than pls be nice to me


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as usual i would like to disclaimer that i have been to both disney world and the georgia aquarium but i was a child and i don't remember much about either of them so i researched for the detailed parts but if i got it wrong pleaseeee let me know and i will fix it. also i know nothing about nano technology but this is my fic so basically reality can be whatever i want it to be and if i want it to work like That then it can. but at fandemic con this past weekend, sebastian stan said bucky's wakandan arm has 'features we havent seen yet' so if i see these mfs stealing my idea and not giving me any of the profit or at least crediting me and letting me have a cameo in the show or sumn then im suing and thats on GOD. okay enjoy the chapter :)

They’re going to some amusement park in Florida, a Disney themed one. Bucky had talked enthusiastically about it for the majority of their seven hour drive between New Orleans and Jacksonville, Florida. They stayed over there for the night and now they’re on their way to Orlando. Steve has been tempted to look up the park, to see what they’re getting themselves into, but Bucky wants it to be a surprise, so he hasn’t. 

They’d shared a cup of coffee and watched the sunrise over the Atlantic before they’d gotten on the road. It’s a short drive, only a couple of hours, they’ll get there before lunch time. Steve doesn’t care. He’s happy to just sit here, the windows down to let in the salty ocean air and his hand in Bucky’s as they speed down the interstate. Florida is another annoyingly humid state- Bucky has complained every morning since Houston about his frizzy hair and insists upon wearing it pulled back. Steve braids it for him if he asks. He’s been trying to learn how to do different types of hairstyles but he’s not very good at any of them yet. He’ll get there in time though. 

Though the morning had started out clear, it’s grey and overcast by the time they pass under the giant arch that says _Walt Disney World_ , the clouds heavy with impending rain. Bucky leans forward in his seat to scowl up at the darkening sky. “This better clear up by the time we get checked in and eat.” 

“At least it’s not a hurricane,” Steve pushes his hair off his forehead. It’s getting way too long. He should cut it. But he also _really_ liked the way Bucky fisted his hand in it and pulled when Steve blew him. “Remember the hurricane of ’38?” 

“Unfortunately.” Bucky shudders. The storm had torn through with nearly no notice, destroying Long Island and taking its toll on New York City too. “You’re right. Besides, I heard that weather here doesn’t last very long. Watch, it’ll rain for ten minutes and be sunny again.” 

It starts pouring just as Bucky pulls the van up under the awning at the entrance to their hotel. It’s fucking _huge_ with a train running through the middle of it, from what Steve saw. 

“Monorail,” Bucky corrects as he parks the van. They’ve dropped Gucci off at the on-site pet boarding facility since she isn’t allowed in the hotel or the park. Steve figures they’ll get a couple of hours before the place calls them demanding they come and get her. Demon cat. There’s a valet parking service so Bucky hands off the keys while Steve grabs their bags from the back. They’re here for three nights and four days and don’t really want to have to go back to the vehicle so they’d made sure to pack everything they could need this morning before they got on the road. The bag with his shield and Mjolnir goes over one shoulder, joined by the bag with his art supplies and the duffel with their clothes. He has a bag and an ice chest with food too. 

“Do you want me to take a few of those?” Bucky asks as they walk into the opulent lobby. There’s almost no line at the front desk. Not surprising- most places they’ve been to have been nearly empty. Taking a road trip right after half the population resurrects seems to be the best way to avoid crowds of tourists; everyone is too busy trying to reconnect or visit with their returned loved ones to be taking vacations. 

“I’ve got it.” It’s not like they feel heavy to him- not anymore. A few years ago, yeah, he would have been struggling with even a couple of them. “You gotta check in anyway.” 

“Our room probably isn’t even available yet. It’s not even eleven and check in isn’t until three.” Bucky digs out his wallet anyway. 

“I wouldn’t count on it. There’s no one here.” 

As it turns out, he’s right. They get their room- a prime location, the clerk assures them, overlooking the Magic Kingdom park. They also get wrist bands instead of room keys. The bands also serve as their ticket into the parks. Steve’s has the dwarfs from Snow White and Bucky’s has some sort of blue… animal? “What’s that on yours?” He shifts the bags to one hand as they head to the elevators so he can lift Bucky’s wrist to look closer at it. 

“Stitch. He’s an alien. We can watch it before heading to the park if you want since it’s raining anyway.” Bucky hits the up button on the elevator. “It’s a good movie.” 

It is. Steve cries a little. 

By the time the credits roll, the sun is shining again and they change into clothing more appropriate for the warming afternoon temperature and shoes suited to walking all day. They take the elevator down to the fourth floor where they board the monorail. Steve is tense as they sit down, his grip so tight on Bucky’s hand that his knuckles are starting to turn white. Trains in and of themselves- especially like this- don’t necessarily bother him. He’d ridden the subway around New York after they’d woken him from the ice with no problem. It’s having _Bucky_ on a train that makes anxiety spike through him, makes his breathing quicken and his hands shake. 

Bucky notices, because of course he does. “Steve,” he touches the side of Steve’s face, “check in, Sweetheart.” 

Most of the time, Steve hasn’t really had anything to ‘report’ when Bucky asks him to check in. He’s being honest when he says he’s good. But he would have said the same thing just the day before he’d stepped off that cliff, so he gets the need for the check ins, he does, and he doesn’t begrudge them. This time though… he breathes out, shaky, as the train lurches and starts to move. “I don’t like being on a train with you. I know… I _know_ it’s different and nothing is going to happen. But it hasn’t even been six months for me since… you know.” 

Bucky’s face softens with understanding. He leans forward and kisses Steve gently. “We’ll walk or take the bus system from now on.” He sticks close for the rest of the ride, every point of contact saying _I’m here, I’m not going anywhere._

The monorail lets them off after they’ve looped around and picked up more people from several more hotels. The entrance to the Magic Kingdom is gorgeous, a giant Mickey Mouse landscaped into the flowerbed. He’s changed since the shorts they’d watched back in Brooklyn, but the change isn’t bad. Getting into the actual park is something of a challenge- they have their pictures taken and their fingerprints scanned. And then Bucky sets off the metal detector. 

“It’s my _arm_ ,” he huffs when they insist on pulling him aside for a weapons check. “I am wearing a _flimsy t-shirt_ and my arm is _clearly metal_. It’s literally _attached to me_.”

“I still have to pat you down,” the guard eyes him nervously. “It’s company policy, Mr. Barnes. Especially considering your… history. We take all potential threats very seriously.” 

“Oh, really?” Bucky rolls his eyes and holds his arms to the side, his mouth pinched into a thin line as the guy starts to frisk him for weapons. “I’m _retired_. I’ve been cleared. I’m here with my fiancé to have a fun vacation, not here to assassinate Mickey.” 

The guard looks over at Steve, startled. 

“Hi,” Steve waves at him. They need to get rings. That wave would have been so much more effective if he was flashing a ring. “I’m the fiancé.” And he was _damn_ proud of it. 

He finishes the pat down and steps back, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. “You’re good to go, fellas. Sorry about the inconvenience. Congratulations on your engagement. We hope you enjoy your time at the parks.” 

“I’ll enjoy it a lot more if I don’t have to go through this every time we try to get in.” Bucky folds his arms over his chest. The move defines the muscled curve of his chest and the bulge of his biceps straining against the material of his shirt. It’s an intimidation move but it still draws Steve’s eye and he could _weep_ because all of that is _his_ and he never has to share it with anyone else ever again. “Is there any way to avoid this situation again? We’re here until Wednesday.” 

“I’ll see to it personally,” the guard assures. 

They get a map and sit down on a bench just inside the entrance to peruse it. “We don’t have to do everything today,” Bucky taps his finger on the map. “I mean, there are four parks but we’re here for long enough to not have to push to see everything. All the outdoor rides are gonna be wet at least for a while longer.” 

“So what do you want to do first?” Since he’s going in blind basically about what rides they even have here, Steve doesn’t really care. Over the course of their stay, he’ll probably get opinions and want to go back and ride some things again and not others, but right now he’s happy to go along with whatever Bucky wants to do. 

“Space mountain,” Bucky enthuses. “It’s a roller coaster in the _dark_. But you can see stars and stuff, like if you were in space.” 

Steve isn’t sure how he feels about roller coasters in the dark, but he’s never backed down from a challenge a day in his life, so he gets to his feet and pulls Bucky up too. “Let’s do that then.” 

The ride is in the Tomorrowland section of the park, quite a walk from the entrance. The further into the park they get, the more Steve sees the appeal. He doesn’t know who most of the characters are, but it’s okay. It’s pretty cool seeing how far the animation has come, to watch everyone else walking around getting excited about seeing their favorites. Bucky pulls him into a gift shop and they pick out mickey ear headbands like other people are wearing- Steve gets the plain, classic one. Bucky debates for about ten minutes, going back and forth between a pair that match Steve’s and a pair with black sequins covering the ears and a rainbow bow on top. 

“Before about a month and a half ago, I had never even said the words ‘I’m gay’,” he says quietly, gazing down at the Pride ears. “Everyone knows now and I don’t care that they know. But it’s still… I don’t know. It’s a statement. It’s loud. There’s still a part of me that thinks I need to do everything possible to keep it under wraps.” 

“If you don’t feel comfortable wearing them, that’s okay.” Steve squeezes his hand. “Either way, it doesn’t change who you are. If you want to be proud quietly, that’s what you should do. If you want to display it, that’s great too. And you should be proud. _I’m_ proud of you.” 

Bucky breathes out softly, smiling at him. “Thanks, Steve.” And he hangs the plain ears back on the rack, lifting his chin and holding the sequined ones to his chest. They walk out of the store with smiles on their faces. 

There’s a small line for Space Mountain, the wait to board just long enough for Steve’s nerves to kick in. He likes the Cyclone, he does, but he always gets fluttery in the stomach before the ride starts. This is no different. Especially since he has no idea what to expect from it since you can’t even see the coaster. He doesn’t like that the seats are singles so he can’t sit next to Bucky, but he takes the center seat, with Bucky in front of him and a kid taking the rear. The attendant checks their lap bars are secure and the ride starts with a lurch. 

It’s a slow start, a steady climb through a tunnel with flashing blue lights that remind Steve too much of Tesseract powered Hydra weapons. He squeezes his eyes shut, shoving his hands under his thighs. When they get out of the tunnel he dares opening them again and they’re going through a room that looks like a space ship. That’s pretty cool. And then they drop and twist into darkness. Steve’s breath catches in his throat. His enhanced sight is just enough to let him see the shadows of their surroundings. Bucky’s laughing, one hand holding his Mickey ears in place. 

There’s no big drops- a few small ones, just enough to make his stomach swoop a little but nothing like the Cyclone or any of the other coasters they went on at Coney Island- it’s mostly unexpected turns. He relaxes into his seat as the ride goes on, looking around at the little pinpricks of light that are supposed to be stars. 

As they exit the ride, Bucky grabs his hand. “What’d you think?” Both of them squint as they step out into the bright sun. 

“I didn’t like the lights in the tunnel,” Steve says, shrugging. “The rest was fun though.” 

“The lights- _oh_ -” Bucky winces. “I’m sorry. I mean, I didn’t know they were gonna be like that, obviously, but I didn’t even think about it until you said that.” 

“It’s okay. I just closed my eyes. If we go on it again I’ll know to do that before it starts.” He reaches into the pocket of his jeans, pulling out the folded park map. “What are we doing next?” 

Bucky peers over his shoulder at the paper. “Oh, let’s go over to the Buzz Lightyear ride.” 

Steve has no clue what a Buzz Lightyear is. He figures it out as they’re boarding. And of course Bucky wins by a landslide. “How in the hell are you five hundred thousand points ahead of me?” Steve gapes at the scoreboards. He hadn’t done too shabby himself, but Bucky’s score is astronomically high. 

“Let’s go again, I can do better.” Bucky smirks at him, leaning back and folding his arms over his chest. “I have a small skillset and this is it.” 

“Shut up, like you haven’t been successful at literally everything you’ve ever tried to do.” For years and years, Steve had burned quietly with envy over that. Bucky was a polyglot, Bucky was always at the top of his classes, Bucky could play any sport, Bucky could dance, Bucky could sing, Bucky could cook and make it taste good even when they had almost nothing to cook _with_ , Bucky’s hair always looked perfect. The list went on and on. But eventually that envy had shifted. Instead of wishing he was more like Bucky, he learned to be proud of his accomplishments, to support and encourage him and _mean_ it. Because he loved him and wanted to see him succeed and be happy, even when Steve couldn’t keep up with him. 

“Okay, you got me there. Also I cheated. I looked up which targets give the most points last night when I was looking at the website and read about this ride.” 

“Uh huh,” Steve steps out of the little cart at the exit point. “Well, now you have to let me read it too before we go on this again.” 

They take their time looping around the park. Steve _loves_ It’s a Small World and Bucky _hates_ it. 

“The song is _stuck in my head_ ,” he complains as they stand in the line for the Haunted Mansion. Steve is more than a little wary of this one after his experiences with horror movies in this century but it’s aimed towards kids so it can’t be that bad. “I’m losing my mind; it won’t _stop_.”

“But it was so cute,” Steve pouts. “We’re definitely going on it again.” 

“I would rather rip my ears off.” 

“ _Please?_ ” He lowers his chin and looks up at Bucky through his lashes, a proven move that hasn’t yet failed him. “I’ll make it worth your while.” 

Bucky swallows hard and steps forward as the line moves up. “Okay, if you ride Tower of Terror with me, I’ll consider it.” 

“Um….” That sounds even less appealing than the ride they’re in line for. “What’s that ride like?” 

“Oh, you’ll love it.” 

***

They don’t make it to Hollywood Studios until the next day but as it turns out, Steve _does_ love Tower of Terror. He loves it so much he makes Bucky go on it five times in a row with him, high on the adrenaline rush of the rising and dropping in the darkness. It’s the same rush that made him love jumping out of planes and off buildings in the war and in the Battle of New York. He hasn’t had that in a while and while he’s surprisingly settled _not_ fighting anymore, he misses the thrill. He honestly would have been more than willing to go on it more than that but Bucky taps out after the fifth ride. 

“Steve, c’mon, I’m getting lightheaded,” Bucky grabs his hand and drags him away from the line entrance before he can suggest they ride it again. “We’ll come back tomorrow or something. Let’s go try some of the Star Wars stuff.” 

“I don’t know what Star Wars is.” He’s seen enough since yesterday to know it’s some sort of big space thing but beyond that, he doesn’t know. 

“It’s a movie series. I haven’t seen them yet though so I really don’t know any more than you do.” Bucky pulls his sunglasses from his shirt pocket, putting them on. 

The rides are fun regardless of the fact that they have no clue who any of the characters are or what the story is about. They spend the rest of the afternoon in Epcot, going on the few rides there are and mostly roaming around the World Showcase. They’ve both been around the world before- Bucky more than Steve- but it’s still enjoyable. 

“Did you want to go back to the hotel?” Bucky asks as they’re starting to get bored of the park. They’ve seen everything and don’t really care to go on any of the rides again. “It’s a little late to go to another park, unless you wanted to see the fireworks from Magic Kingdom?” 

Steve grimaces. The loud explosions of the fireworks aren’t really his idea of a good time. They’re muffled enough from their hotel room that they hadn’t bothered either of them much the night before but he doesn’t want to be any closer to them. “Pass.” 

“We could go to Disney Springs,” Bucky squints at his phone screen, “I think it’s like a shopping center but there’s other stuff too.” 

“I don’t think we have any more room in the car _to_ shop.” They’re pretty much packed to the brim, although with all of their nights from here on out being in hotels rather than camping, they could just fully pack the back. But they don’t even have any clue where they’re going to live at this point, so collecting a bunch of stuff- as much fun as it is to just buy something they like because they _can_ \- isn’t the smartest idea. Steve doesn’t really want to intrude on Sam’s home again when they get back to New York. Maybe it would be different if he actually knew the guy the way Other Steve knew him, or even if he knew him like Bucky knows him. But even though they’d gotten along, he’s still barely more than a familiar stranger to Steve. 

“I just want to look at a small thing. It won’t take up any room.” He doesn’t elaborate any further than that and Steve doesn’t ask. They board the bus to go over to the shopping area, sitting close enough the sides of their thighs are pressed together. Bucky takes Steve’s hand in his, flipping it over to trace his finger along the lines in his palm. “Hey, you still have the scar from Ma’s needle!” He pokes at a faint circle at the very center of Steve’s palm. 

Steve leans forward to squint at the skin. “Yeah, I guess so. I’d forgotten about it.” He’d been about eleven, spending the afternoon at Bucky’s house. Bucky’s mother had been sewing and she’d called him over for something. When he’d put his hand down on the arm of the couch, he’d unknowingly planted it right where she’d been using the upholstery for a pincushion. The needle had gone about a half an inch into his palm and it hadn’t even been the sharp end. He’d only managed to say a startled _oh_ but it had been enough to draw Bucky’s attention. Steve had merely shrugged as Bucky’s mother pulled it from his hand, but Bucky had gone white as a sheet and he’d spent the rest of the afternoon insisting on doing Steve’s homework for him so he didn’t have to use his injured hand to write. “I’m glad it’s still there. It’s a good scar to have.” 

“Me too.” Bucky lifts his hand to lightly kiss the spot. “I think she’d be happy for us… at least, I like to think so. At least, happy that after everything the world put us through, we still managed to find our way back to each other- back _home_ \- in the end. I think she’d be happy for that.” 

“I know she would be.” Hell, if she were here, she’d probably be front row at their wedding. Thinking back, even though he hadn’t known about Bucky’s feelings for him at the time, he can pick out moments that made it seem like she had known. _‘He needs you more than you think, Styopa. Don’t ever think for a second that he doesn’t’_ , when he’d been agonizing over being a burden to Bucky after his mother’s death. _‘I know you’ll find your way to him. If you have each other, you’ll survive this war. Trust that. Trust him’_ , when she’d seen him off at the station for basic training. He hates to think of how she must have felt when the telegrams reporting them killed in action had arrived at her door less than a week apart. “I wish there was a way to-”

“I know.” Bucky cuts in, sucking his lower lip between his teeth as he shakes his head. “And there _is_ , technically, but we can’t just abuse that kind of tech. All it would do is make another timeline. As much as I wish for just a _moment_ , a hug, a goodbye- I can’t do that in good conscience.” 

Steve hadn’t even thought of that. He should have, but it hadn’t even occurred to him until Bucky said it. He twines their fingers together and leans his head against Bucky’s shoulder. “Grief sucks.” 

“Yep.” 

They sit in silence for the rest of the ride. 

When they disembark at Disney Springs, Bucky pulls out his phone, studying the map he has pulled up. “Okay, so the store I want to stop in isn’t far. This way,” He tugs at Steve’s hand. 

Most of the stores they pass seem to be clothing, nothing even that special like they’d shopped at in Los Angeles. He doesn’t see what the fuss is until Bucky finally comes to a stop in front of a shop door, shifting his weight nervously from foot to foot. Steve looks up at the sign and his heart nearly beats right out of his chest. It’s a _jewelry_ store. “Buck-”

“You did the asking,” Bucky says quietly, tucking a loose strand of hair behind his ear. “But can I put a ring on you?” 

Steve swallows hard, blinking against the hot rush of tears. “Only if I can have your last name.” 

His words seem to shock Bucky, though they shouldn’t. He blinks at Steve a few times, his mouth opening and closing. “But having the name Steve Rogers _means_ something to the world.” 

“If it’s all the same,” Steve shrugs, “I’d rather be Steve Barnes. I’d like to try being the person I want to be, not the one the world thinks I should be. And I… I want that proof that I’m not going to be like Him. I don’t want to be that person.” 

Bucky tugs him against his chest, burying his face in Steve’s neck and wrapping his arms around his waist. “Then I would be _honored_ to make you a Barnes. Have I ever told you how much I love you?” 

“I few times,” Steve jokes, laughing so he doesn’t start crying, “but you know how hardheaded I can be. Can’t hurt to keep telling me.” 

“I love you _so much_.”

“I love _you_ so much.” Steve pulls back to kiss him lightly. “Let’s go look at rings then.” 

They’re greeted by a man in a suit nearly as soon as they step through the door. He welcomes them, shaking both of their hands with a smile and a, “What can I help you gentlemen find today?” 

Bucky lifts his chin, “We’d like to look at your men’s engagement rings.” 

“Very good,” the man says, not even blinking. “I should inform you that if any significant resizing of a ring is required, it can take up to two weeks. We do offer free shipping, although in the world’s current state, it may be delayed.” 

“That’s fine,” Steve shrugs. “We can always just take it to a jeweler closer to home and have it resized, right?” 

“Yes, but we do offer a resizing discount here with the purchase of a ring.” 

Money really isn’t an issue for them anyway so that doesn’t really matter. And isn’t that still the craziest thing to think of? He tries very hard not to really acknowledge the sum of anything anymore- not the price tags on the things they buy or the sheer amount of money that Bucky had confided he had. The salesman leads them toward the back of the store, stepping behind one of the brightly lit glass counters. He pulls out four different trays of rings and sets them on the countertop. 

“If you have an idea of what kind of metal you’d like or if you want a stone setting, that can narrow down the search.” 

“Pick whatever you want, Sweetheart.” Bucky leans his hip against the counter, his gaze steady on Steve. 

Steve looks over the array of rings. They’re all gorgeous, shining metals. Some of them have stones set in the bands, some don’t. None of them really spark any sense of… rightness within him, though. “You’re not getting one for yourself?” 

Bucky holds up his left hand, wiggling the metal fingers. “Can’t. I mean, Shuri could probably come up with something if I asked her nicely, but a regular ring will interfere with the movement of the plates on my finger.” He shrugs, dropping his hand to the countertop. 

Rings are really a stupid kind of thing to get hung up on when he’d been fine not having one before, but the fact that he won’t be able to see Bucky wearing one too makes Steve ache a little. He’d wanted to match. He stares at Bucky’s hand blankly for a few moments, the black and gold vibranium shining in the store’s lighting. The grooves between the plating, the tip of his middle finger where he can twist and open up that panel where he’d produced knives from using nano particles…. Steve’s gaze darts over to the trays of rings and back to Bucky. He stands up straighter, turning his attention back to the salesman. “Actually, thank you for your time, but we won’t be needing to buy a ring today after all.” 

“What-” Bucky frowns at him as Steve grabs his hand and tugs him back towards the front of the store. 

Steve waits until they’re back outside and away from anyone who might overhear to turn to Bucky and say in a hushed voice, “Your arm. You said it’s connected to your thinking and that’s how you made those knives, right?” 

“Yeah….”

“Can you make a ring?” 

Bucky’s gaze drops down to his arm and then back up to Steve. “I… should be able to? Theoretically? I’ve never tried anything other than knives. It might take a few tries to get the size right.” 

“I wanted to get matching rings with you but since you can’t wear one… this way I can still match you.” Steve lets Bucky lift his hand and examine the circumference of his ring finger. “That’s worth more to me than any ring money could buy.” 

Bucky smiles, a little wobbly. “Shush or you’ll make me cry and then you’ll get a messed up looking ring.” He sucks in a deep breath and twists the tip of his finger, squeezing his eyes shut tightly in concentration. Steve leans forward, peering into the space revealed as the panel pulls back. There are little mechanisms inside the space working to form the ring. It takes longer for it to take shape than it had taken for the knives, but maybe that’s because Bucky knew what he was doing with the knives and it didn’t matter what they looked like. In the end, it’s a simple black band with a single line of gold running around the center. Bucky holds it up silently, angled so Steve can see the inscription running along the inside. 

_We’ll Make It Through._

His breath catches in his throat. “Put it on me?” 

It fits perfectly. 

***

Disney was fun but Steve was more than a little relieved when they packed up the car and got back on the road. Even Gucci seemed to have missed them in the days since they had dropped her off at the pet boarding facility. She’d planted herself in the floorboard at Steve’s feet and she _wouldn’t move_. The close, enclosed proximity to her meant that by the time they had gotten into Atlanta the evening before his throat was scratchy. He’d blamed it on the blowjob he’d given Bucky in the shower that morning. 

It’s not _cold_ in Atlanta- not when he compares it to New York winters- but after spending the past ten days in warmer states, stepping out on the hotel balcony in the morning to forty five degree weather is something of a shock. He sucks in a sharp breath and turns on his heel, going back into their room and shutting the door tight behind him. Bucky is blearily rubbing at his eyes and sipping from a mug of coffee. They’re going to the Georgia Aquarium today. Bucky claims they have some kind of whale- shark?- that can’t be seen in any other aquarium in America. Apparently they also let you swim with dolphins but Steve doesn’t want any part of being submerged. He doesn’t mind looking at the animals though. “When did you want to leave?” He sits on the end of the bed next to Bucky, leaning his head against Bucky’s shoulder. 

“Hm,” Bucky yawns, “I don’t care. They don’t open until ten so….”

“Perfect,” Steve reaches over and takes the mug from Bucky, draining the last of the coffee in one swallow and setting the cup on the floor. “Then let me say good morning properly.” 

They don’t make it to the aquarium until eleven. 

It’s already busy, packed with groups of shouting school children in matching shirts, families, and couples. They get held up at the metal detectors _again_ but eventually they manage to get inside. It’s lit up in soft blues and purples inside and he can just barely hear soothing music playing over the din of the hundreds of people’s voices blending together. Steve tightens his hand around Bucky’s, edging closer to him. “Where to first?” There’s a bunch of hallways branching off the main atrium, big signs up with the exhibit names that they lead to. 

“I don’t care. You pick.” 

Steve pulls out the pamphlet they had gotten at the ticketing booth and reads over the descriptions of the exhibits. “Let’s start with that one then,” he points at the hallway leading to the Ocean Voyager exhibit. The main attraction. 

Bucky grins and tugs him towards the exhibit entrance. The crowds of people part for them as they walk- Steve’s pretty sure it’s just Bucky’s presence that causes that effect everywhere they go. He’s got this swagger to his walk, something he was only beginning to show when he’d gotten back to Brooklyn on leave from boot camp. It had disappeared almost entirely during the war but now it’s back in full force, with more flair and purpose than it ever had before. Steve _loves_ watching him walk. He’s wearing black cargo pants today that hug his thighs so snugly that Steve nearly doesn’t care to look at anything else. 

The first hallway of the exhibit entrance is dimly lit, with only a couple of small viewing windows into the tank but they’re completely surrounded by school children so Steve and Bucky don’t even try to get a peek into them. They read each of the information panels on the wall and Steve has to admit that he is getting excited to see these sharks. He’d never really even considered the existence of animals like this before. He’d grown up a New York street urchin. His world of animals consisted of rats, roaches, pigeons, and the occasional stray dog or cat. He’d known in a distant way that there _were_ a lot of animals out there somewhere but he’d never experienced it until he’d gotten to Europe. And then they were hunting them for food. Seeing them like this isn’t really an experience he’d ever imagined having. 

The hallway curves around to a tunnel that goes straight through the tank itself. Steve sucks in a breath, looking around in wonder as the fish and sharks and sting rays swim around them. “Holy shit.” 

“Look,” Bucky points ahead of them where one of the whale sharks is coming into view. It’s fucking gigantic, casting a shadow in the tunnel as it glides through the water over the top of them. 

They take in the animals in silence as they make their way through the long tunnel. There are schools of fish, gigantic manta rays, sea turtles, sharks. So much to look at that it almost makes Steve’s head hurt. 

Did any sea animals swim around him as he slept on in his icy, watery grave? 

He can’t suppress the shudder that wracks through him. Not this, not again. He’s been _good_. The sleeve of his sweater is long enough that it covers when he digs his fingernails into the palm of his free hand until hot blood smears onto his skin. _Don’t think. Just don’t think._

It should be easy. 

The tunnel curves around and exits into another hallway with more information panels. There’s a domed viewing window that Bucky pulls him under to take a selfie with a manta ray swimming above them. Steve flinches back from the frigid water in the touch tank that they go past. He doesn’t really want to touch little shrimps anyway. 

“Steve? You okay?” Bucky steps into his space, his mouth near Steve’s ear to be heard over the noise. “We can leave if it gets to be too much. Just say the word. I’m sorry, I didn’t even think about-”

“I’m okay.” He presses his forehead against the curve of Bucky’s shoulder, sucking in a deep breath that does nothing for the minute trembling in his hands. “I’m okay.” He’s going to be okay. “Tell me I’m safe.” 

Bucky lifts Steve’s hand, guiding it to his loose curls. He’s got his hair up in a half bun but there’s still enough down for Steve to twine his fingers into. “You’re _safe_. Not ever gonna let anything happen to you. I promise.” 

He still doesn’t particularly relish the idea of therapy. Of having to bear his soul for some stranger to analyze and try to fix, but he knows he can’t keep going- not like this. And he trusts Bucky enough to have hope that it doesn’t have to be like what SHIELD forced him through. Bucky wouldn’t make him go through that again. “I love you,” he lifts his head and tucks a stray curl behind Bucky’s ear, resting his hand there. Safe. Safe, safe, _safe_. 

They stay close as they go through the rest of the exhibit, ending up in a huge room with a viewing window into the tank that’s probably bigger than the giant screens they have at the movie theaters now. There’s carpeted risers that they sit on. It’s oddly relaxing, to just sit with his head leaned against Bucky’s shoulder, watching the blue flickering shadows the water makes on the room. There’s soft music playing. He likes this room better than the tunnel. 

When the group of schoolchildren leaves from where they had been crowding against the glass, Bucky gets to his feet, pulling out his phone. “I’m gonna go over there and get some close up pictures really quick.” 

“Okay. I’ll keep our seats.” Steve smiles up at him, waiting until he’s turned away and walking towards the window to take his own phone out. He snaps a picture of Bucky’s silhouette against the expanse of the giant viewing window. It’s something he’d like to paint, eventually. 

Someone clears their throat behind him. 

Steve turns, pushing his bangs out of his eyes. There’s an older woman, maybe in her fifties or sixties, staring at him. “Hi?” 

“My name is Karen Irwin and I run a news blog,” she says, not offering her hand to shake. “I don’t mean to be nosy, but I have a few concerns. It’s been over a month since the population has miraculously reappeared and yet you, as the leader of the Avengers, have had nothing to say to any media. Not about the people resurrecting, not about the deaths of Tony Stark or the Black Widow, not about the battle that destroyed the Avengers compound. And not about why you suddenly look years younger than you did when you gave that interview with Time Magazine just this past summer.” Her words come rapid fire, with nearly no pause for breath between them, let alone any time for him to say anything. “It’s understandable that you would want to take some time away with your returned loved ones but the people of the world are confused and need some insight into what exactly happened and if we need to prepare for the possibility of anything of this impact happening again.” 

Steve gets tenser with each word she throws at him. They’re valid concerns, but he doesn’t have an answer for them. He knows vaguely what happened before he got here, the bare bones of what had happened with Thanos and the Snap- information that’s never been released to the public as far as he can tell. But he doesn’t know what he can say that isn’t classified and he hates how this feels like an ambush. He hadn’t interacted with any media in 2012 since coming out of the ice. Is this how it’s supposed to be? “Um-”

“Stark Media group released a statement that only stated that Iron Man and Black Widow both passed away in battle. Would you like to add anything to that?” She fiddles with her phone, holding it up between them. Recording. 

His breathing picks up pace and he leans back, as far away from her as he can get without actually moving. What the fuck is he even supposed to say? He signed up to be a soldier, not a celebrity, not a politician. He knows Tony died when he snapped the gauntlet and Natasha died on a planet far away in a different timeline. “It’s classified.” 

“Do you have anything to say about your seeming reversal of age? With the pictures of you and Sergeant Barnes being released by individuals, there are some groups out there that have shown side by side comparisons of you now with you three months ago and you about a decade back, after the Battle of New York. They’ve rightfully pointed out the return of your more youthful appearance. Are the Avengers in possession of an age reversing technology?” 

“No comment.” Steve sucks in a hard breath and looks up at Bucky. He’s nearly vibrating with anger, burning glare locked on the woman interrogating Steve. He grabs Steve’s hand and pulls him to his feet. “Stark Media has clearly stated that if you want an interview with any of the Avengers, you have to put in a request through them and you may only ask pre-approved questions. What’s your name?” 

“Karen Irwin.” She doesn’t look so confident now, her gaze nervously darting between the two of them. 

“Thank you, Karen. Consider yourself and anyone associated with you blacklisted from any Avengers press events, now and in the future.” Bucky shoots her one last venomous glare and turns on his heel, heading for the exhibit exit. 

If he had been smaller, Steve would have had to run to keep up with the pace Bucky sets. They don’t stop until they’ve gotten back to the main atrium. There’s nowhere really private in the place, so Bucky pulls him into a corner, still seething. 

“She had _no right_ ,” he hisses, voice low enough to not be overheard. “What else did she ask?” 

“Just about Tony and Nat. I told her it’s classified.” Steve’s heartbeat is only beginning to slow down to a more sedate pace. He hates this- the shaky hands, uneven breathing, feeling like he’s gonna throw up kinda panic. How did he ever become the fucking Avengers media spokesperson like the journalist had insinuated he was? He can lead a team, give orders. He can write a military report with no problem. But he’d hated the reporters when he was just Captain America the USO boy and movie star and he hated them now. No matter what you say, they always find some way to twist it. “They know- they know that I’m not… I’m different. How are we supposed to- they’re not going to stop asking about it. It’s gonna be forever.” 

“I don’t know.” Bucky closes his eyes, tipping his head back and blowing out a breath. “We’re meeting with Sharon Carter- Peggy’s niece, she was a SHIELD agent, she helped me and Sam and Steve back in 2016 when everything happened with the Accords- when we get into DC. She and Sam are heading up the new agency; I don’t know what they’re calling it. She’s gonna help us sort out what we can and cannot talk about and all that shit, I don’t know. As a rule of thumb, ‘no comment’ is your best friend when dealing with the media.” He rubs a hand over his face. “I’d like to say hopefully we won’t have to deal with them outside of controlled situations but I don’t know. We’re going to be public figures, no question about it, but I’m new to this too. This is the first time I haven’t had to live in hiding since I escaped Hydra.” 

Well, the thing Bucky had said about reporters not being allowed to ask them stuff unless they request an interview is probably what’s kept them from being hounded so far. Incidents like the one that just happened are going to be few and far between- if journalists are smart they won’t do anything to get themselves banned. He squeezes Bucky’s hand. “It’s okay. No damage done.” They’ll find out soon enough what exactly is classified and what isn’t. He doesn’t particularly want to have to guard how he got to this timeline like the world’s darkest secret but he doesn’t want it just information that the general public knows either. And if Bucky trusts Sharon Carter then he does too. “Let’s go see some dolphins.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hhh guys theres only two chapters and an epilogue left im so sad and relieved at the same time. the story about steve and the needle is actually something that happened to me, my mom had the WORST habit of leaving her sewing needles stuck in the arms and the back of the couch like a pincushion and the ONE time i forgot to look where i was putting my hand i ended up with a needle shoved an inch deep in the center of my palm. i still have the scar- it looks like a little white star.


	23. Chapter 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sooooo one more chapter (+epilogue) after this bro this is so devastating these are my emotional support characters at this point. like i'm ready for it to be over because i've been writing this for almost six months now but also i don't want to let this version of them go. ALSO this fic reached eighteen thousand the night before last like holy shit there are so many of you guys that's enough to fill and overflow the forum arena in LA like,,,,,,, i dont even know how to process it but im so grateful to you all for being here with me through this journey not to sound like a sap or anything but your comments make my day like it's instant serotonin to my poor depressed brain so thank you!!!!! enjoy the chapter my loves

They spend their first day in DC roaming around the National Zoo. Sharon has two days cleared for them to probably spend a lot of boring hours doing a shit ton of paperwork that Bucky really isn’t looking forward too. He tries to focus on the panda bears though and ignore the impending headache of the next few days. They’re in the middle of trying to figure out how to get a selfie with the panda in the background when one of the zookeepers comes up to them and offers to let them meet the pandas. And then one of them _hugs_ Bucky for the picture the zookeeper is taking. 

So that’s pretty cool. 

The headquarters for SWORD- Strategic World Organization for Relief and Defense- is located not far from the place where the Triskelion used to stand. There’s construction equipment everywhere and the bones of a new building going up but for right now, they’re meeting in an older office building. Apparently Okoye had agreed to come in and be part of the directing board after helping Natasha run world security in the five years between the two Snaps. He doesn’t know who else is a part of it and he’s happy to leave it that way. They’re done fighting. 

Sharon meets them in the lobby, a smile on her face as she shakes both of their hands and introduces herself to Steve. Bucky doesn’t know her well- really doesn’t know her at all, actually- but he can see the tight lines of sadness and anger around her eyes as she looks at Steve. She had been taken out in the Snap too, but he knows she and Steve had dated off and on in the two years. The fact that she’s even willing to deal with the two of them now commands Bucky’s respect. It’s like if Steve now decided to go back and marry Bucky’s sister or his mother or something _after_ having been with Bucky. She leads them up into a conference room, sitting down at the head of the table behind a laptop and a stack of thick files. 

Bucky helps himself to the coffeepot in the room before sitting down next to Steve, at Sharon’s right. 

She flips open the top folder and pulls out a thick packet of paper, pushing it and a pen in front of Steve. “Alright, gentlemen. Let’s begin. First thing, Steve, I need you to fill a report on how exactly you got to this timeline and your understanding of quantum technology.” She turns to Bucky, flipping through her folders until she finds the one she wants. “You mostly just need to sign a bunch of things in order to get your military back pay released into your possession. It’s a lot of reading but not much else other than signing your name at the bottom of each page.” 

He takes the file and pen she hands him, flipping it open to the first page and settles in to read. It’s gonna take Steve a long time to fill out his report anyway so he might as well take his time making sure he understands exactly what he’s signing his name on. It is long and it is boring but he’d rather be bored than accidentally agree to be a government asset again. The last page of the packet is a statement detailing how much money will be released into his account. In comparison to his account in Wakanda, the three and a half million is small pennies, but somehow there’s vindication in it. He _earned_ this money, goddamn it. It’s not blood money taken from Nazi safe houses in a spiteful- and well warranted- rage. It’s his, honestly and truly. 

That doesn’t mean he’s gonna give back the Hydra money or anything though. 

Steve caps his pen with an exhausted sigh and pushes the report back to Sharon. “I tried to explain it as best I could but I don’t fully understand how it worked.” 

“That’s fine,” she assures, flipping through the papers. “We’re working with Hope Van Dyne to better understand quantum technology and travel. She can clarify anything I need a better understanding of but I just needed to have your full report on record rather than hearing it secondhand from Sam Wilson. This looks like pretty much everything _I_ already know. Thank you.” 

“It’s no problem.” Steve pushes his hair out of his eyes; it’s long enough now that it either needs to be cut _now_ or he’s gotta start gelling or tying it back because it’s constantly in his eyes. Obviously it’s up to Steve what he decides to do with it, but Bucky almost hopes he cuts it. Not military short, but something like he wore before the war. He’d spent so much of his time in the future with Steve having longer hair, he doesn’t want to start associating the two of them with each other. “What next?” 

Sharon grimaces, pulling out a grey folder from her stack. “Well, when it comes to the issue of your identity, we have something of a problem. Because the original Steve Rogers is still alive in this timeline, he still needs to have an identity, he still needs to have access to his money from his days as an Avenger. I think we can all agree that this situation is… messed up. As you know, he was in the hospital with a broken hip, but when he was healed enough SWORD stepped in and moved him into a government retirement home here in DC. The same one my Aunt Peggy was in through her last years, actually. He’ll be comfortable and well cared for there. I… went to see him a little over a week ago, both for my own peace of mind and to see what I could get him to agree to as far as letting Steve here take over his identity.” 

“And?” Bucky leans forward in his seat. He hates talking about Old Steve, it makes him all squirmy inside and brings back all the betrayal and anger and devastation he’s been so good at suppressing these last few weeks; throwing himself into his relationship with _his_ Steve full force and pushing every bad thought away viciously away. And he’s been too worried about Steve since the Grand Canyon to even really think about Old Steve at all. 

“And nothing,” Sharon huffs. “That stubborn asshole wouldn’t agree to anything. Well, that’s not true. He agreed to consider taking on a new identity- something like Grant Carter, we were thinking- and to inheriting most of his funds into this Steve’s name, other than a pension for him to live off of. But he won’t sign the necessary paperwork. Not unless he gets something out of it too.” 

Bucky’s stomach drops. He knows what she’s going to say before the words even leave her mouth. Of course he wants something, of _course_ he does. 

“He wants to see both of you.” 

***

“We don’t have to do this, Buck.” 

Bucky grips the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles turn white as he pulls into a parking space in front of the retirement home. It’s a nice looking place, as far as nursing homes go. Or he guesses it is. It’s not like he’s that familiar with them. “We kind of do, though. He specified both of us.” He shifts the gear into park and kills the engine, leaning his forehead against the cool leather of the steering wheel. His stomach is twisting with every breath he takes. Foolish of him to think he’d be able to live the rest of his life and never see Old Steve again. 

“Bucky-”

“It’s _fine_ ,” he doesn’t mean to snap, honest he doesn’t, but the words come out harsher than he intended. Steve is watching him hesitantly, his teeth worrying his lower lip and his face pale when Bucky glances over. He groans and sits back, rubbing his hands over his face. “Sorry. I’m sorry. I’m not mad at you, I’m just stressed out. I didn’t mean to yell. I’m fine. This is hardly the worst thing I’ve ever had to do. I just have to suck it up and be a grownup for however long it takes to get this shit dealt with and then I never have to think about it again.” 

“You’re allowed to be upset, Bucky,” Steve touches his arm gently. “And if you need to yell, even if it’s at me, it’s okay. I understand.” 

He presses his fists harder against his eyes. No crying, not now. Not until after. He doesn’t want to walk in there with his face all blotchy and give Old Steve the satisfaction of knowing even now, even fucking _engaged_ to his Steve, he still hurts. Every time he thinks about. And it’s still as fresh a wound as it was the day he watched Steve disappear on that platform and not come back. “I don’t want to yell at you. Not _you_ , not ever.” He can’t guarantee he’ll be able to make it out of this meeting without yelling at old Steve though. 

“All the same, I want you to know it’s okay if you do. Or if you need to yell at him and bring up things that I’ve told you that he never did. It’s _okay_. I know you’re not mad at _me_. You’re not going to hurt my feelings.” Steve tugs on his arm until he pulls his hands away from his face and looks over at the blond. “I love you. You’re the strongest person I’ve ever known.” 

He breathes in, shuddery, turning in his seat to lean across the space between them and hug Steve tight. “Thank you.” Too bad he can’t just stay right here, wrapped up in Steve for the rest of the afternoon. “Alright. Let’s do this.” 

Steve squeezes him once and releases him, pulling back to push his door open and step out of the van. It takes a second of gritting his teeth and regulating his breathing for Bucky to be able to follow him. He pulls his jacket tighter around him as the cold wind hits him, blowing his hair in his face. Sharon is already here, waiting for them inside with visitor passes when they get into the building. Bucky loops the lanyard around his neck and slips his hand into Steve’s. 

“He’s this way,” Sharon nods at a long hallway. They follow her in silence to an unassuming door that she knocks on and then pushes open. “Steve? It’s Sharon.” 

“And Bucky?” 

Bucky can’t see him yet but he can hear the eager hope in the words and it turns his stomach. The bastard. Why? Does he not fucking realize how painful this is for Bucky? Does he just not care? He didn’t even mention Steve; he only really wanted to be contrary about the paperwork so that Bucky would be forced to visit him again. Steve squeezes his hand and it gives Bucky the courage to swallow, to step into the room and say, “And me. And Steve. _My_ Steve.” 

Old Steve is sitting in a recliner by the window, an afghan over his lap. Looking at him still hits like a sledgehammer to the gut. His age dulled eyes are bright as he looks at Bucky. “It’s good to see you, Buck.” 

“I can’t say I feel the same.” The words are curt, bitten out through gritted teeth, his throat thick with nausea. “Can we _please_ just get this over with? If you care at all, don’t drag it out. _Please_.”

“Sharon, may I have the papers and a moment alone with Steve and Bucky?” He waits until Sharon has placed the file she’s holding on his lap desk and stepped out of the room to turn his attention back to the two of them. His gaze flicks between them, standing shoulder to shoulder. A united front. “I’ve had… a lot of time to think. And to watch the news. Or rather, follow somewhat how the two of you have been getting along through what the news has to say. I wanted to say congratulations.” He looks down at the ring on Steve’s hand. “I truly am sorry for all the pain I’ve caused you both, but I’m glad that in spite of it, you’ve managed to find a happy ending. I hope in time you’ll find it in yourselves to forgive me, but I want you to know that I’m not expecting it. You have every right to be angry, for as long as you want to be. But I hope- I hope we can mend the burned bridges.” 

Bucky _hates_ himself for the tears that blur his vision, sliding hot down his cheeks as he curls further and further in on himself, pulling his hand from Steve’s so he can wrap his arms around his ribs like it’ll hold him together. So much for not giving him the satisfaction. “You _left me_ with Hydra.” He doesn’t understand it, can’t reconcile the old man in front of him who had willingly done so much damage to him with the one next to him, who loves Bucky like each day might be the only one they’ll get, like each kiss is the first- desperate and relieving and so, so longed for. How did a decade change him that much? That he would stand by, knowing Bucky was being tortured and made to forget? “I can’t forgive that. I _can’t_. Everything else- maybe. In time. But not that.” 

“I know it won’t make a difference, but I have regretted it every day-”

“For _what?_ ” Bucky nearly shouts. “The last month and a half? You certainly didn’t regret it that morning on the porch when you _told_ me. _You shaped the century, Bucky. I couldn’t change the future, Bucky_. Bull. Shit.” It’s all a bunch of bullshit. He’s just desperate to get back in Bucky’s good graces that he’ll say anything he thinks might get him there but none of it means _shit_. “You changed a fucking lot. You could have changed my fate too. God, did you hate me that much? Was I really this awful thing that you couldn’t stand to be around at all so you didn’t care that I was being fucking tortured as long as you had your fucking white picket fence?” He wants to be bitter and nasty and throw out things like, _did you ever tell Peggy about your little commissions back in the day? Did she know the Valkyrie was a suicide because you couldn’t live without me?_ But he won’t. Not with Steve here, even though he’d pretty much given Bucky permission to use those things against Old Steve. He doesn’t ever want them to become points of contention between them because he wishes that for just a moment he could make Old Steve feel even a fraction of the pain he’s made Bucky feel. 

“Bucky, _no_ , of course not-”

“Then _what?_ I don’t understand. I can’t see how you became this person, Steven. It doesn’t make any sense.” He’s almost hyperventilating, his skin prickling fever hot underneath his layers of clothes. 

“I couldn’t handle watching you _die_ again. I couldn’t lose you again.” 

“ _That’s_ what doesn’t make sense! You still lost me!” His voice breaks, a single burning tear sliding down his cheek. He rubs it away roughly. “You didn’t see me for seventy years- an entire fucking lifetime- and you were _okay with it_. Even knowing where I was. Even knowing you could have gotten to me before I became the Soldier. You didn’t want me. You didn’t _care_.”

“I’m not expecting forgiveness.” 

It’s not a denial. 

“I hope you’re also not expecting a wedding invitation,” Steve pipes up, the first thing he’s said since they walked into the room. He’s moved behind Bucky, hands firm, bracing at his shoulders. “Because you’re not getting one. Also, I hope you’re not expecting to ever see us again. Once we get those fucking papers signed so I can actually be a person with a life here, that’s it. You’ve done enough damage. I don’t know what you do or don’t feel for him still, and frankly, I don’t care. If you still have even a shred of the love that I have, then you’ll give him up and let go and let him heal. Away from you. I’ve been trying _so hard_ to undo what you’ve done, as much as I can. You can’t expect him to keep coming back and letting you rip that wound open again, and again, and again.” 

Bucky leans further and further back against Steve with each word he speaks, sagging back against his chest. He’s so tired, this is so exhausting. He just wants to fucking leave and never come back to this hellhole again. He wants to get married and build a home and have a normal life and he wants to go back to therapy because clearly he isn’t working through his trauma as well as he thought he was. 

“I hope you make him happy,” Old Steve says and flips the file open, grabbing his pen and scrawling his name on the signature line. He holds the file toward them. 

Steve lightly touches Bucky’s side, stepping around him to cross the room. “Don’t worry, I’ll work on that tonight when I take him back to the hotel and ride him until he forgets everything but feeling good.” Bucky’s head shoots up just in time for him to catch Steve stick his tongue out at his elderly counterpart and snatch the file from his hand. He leans down, whispering, still loud enough for Bucky to hear. “You could’a had it….”

Bucky can only shrug at Old Steve as his Steve turns on his heel and grabs Bucky’s hand, hauling him out of the room. Sharon is leaning against the wall opposite of the door. Steve hands her the file and says, “We’re taking the rest of the day.” 

“Then I’ll see you bright and early in the morning.” She smiles at them, genuine. “I called your hotel while you were in there with him and had the bill put in SWORD’s name. Order yourselves some room service on me.” 

“Thank you, Sharon.” Steve shakes her hand again and then directs Bucky out of the building. “Are you okay to drive?” He asks as they near the car. 

His hands are stiff as he fumbles the keys out of his pocket, “yeah, I got it.” If there’s anything he’s good at, it’s checking out and getting shit done despite whatever he might be feeling. And he’s not really feeling anything, oddly enough, compared to how he felt like he was about to fall apart when he was in that room. It’s just empty- static in his head drowning out anything else. Maybe Steve had a valid point in asking if Bucky is okay to drive though because somehow they pull into the lot of the hotel and he doesn’t remember anything about how they got there, but he’s still behind the wheel. At least they didn’t crash. 

Steve keeps a hand at his elbow as they head to the elevator and go up to their room. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t ask how Bucky’s doing or bring up anything about Old Steve, he’s just there, supporting. Bucky doesn’t know how to possibly thank him enough for it. 

He makes it inside their room, manages to get far enough to sit down at the foot of the bed when the first ragged sob forces its way from his throat. Like everything that built up over the last hour is a soda and he’s the can that was just shaken up and opened. It hits like a fucking battering ram right in his ribs, the sudden rush of pain actually physical. He clamps his right hand over his mouth hard enough that he’s all but choking on his broken sobs. Stupid. He’s so fucking stupid. He needs to get over this and figure out how to live with it. Shutting down like this every time he has to think about it isn’t working. 

“ _Bucky,_ ” Steve sinks onto the mattress beside him, his arms wrapping around Bucky and pulling him into a tight hug. His lips graze Bucky’s temple in the softest kiss as he guides Bucky to tuck his face into the curve of his shoulder. “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.” He murmurs the apology over and over against the side of Bucky’s head. 

“’S n-not your fault.” Why can’t he just fucking get over this? He’s making Steve feel like shit for something that isn’t even his fault; fuck, why is he still this upset when he’s literally _engaged_ to Steve? He’s so pathetic. This is probably why Old Steve stopped loving him in any capacity in the first place. Fuck, he has to pull it together or else this Steve might stop loving him too. He can’t lose that. All he wanted his entire life was love. He finally has it, he can’t do anything to jeopardize it now. Why can’t he _breathe?_ Why is he so _hot_ all of a sudden? There’s cold sweat on his temples and his palms and the back of his neck but he’s so hot and dizzy and he can’t breathe and Steve is going to _hate him_ and-

“Bucky.” 

He’s _shaking_ , like Steve used to through the coldest winter nights, like he did every time they brought him off the ice. Full body tremors, his teeth chattering together, his muscles locked up. His chest hurts. Is this a heart attack? He thinks his heart is pounding. It might be his ribs rattling apart from the force of how hard he’s shaking and he can’t _stop_. This is it. He’s dying. He can’t breathe around the lump in his throat and he can hear gasping- that’s _him_ \- but there’s no oxygen. There’s no air anywhere. He’s just a fucking liability. He can’t keep _himself_ together for all he thought he could. He’s just going to hurt Steve. He’s going to make Steve hate him and go away again. He’s going to be alone. He’s going to die alone. It’s not stopping, why isn’t it _stopping?_ He hasn’t died yet but it’s not stopping. He’s _suffocating._.

“Bucky!” Steve’s face is hovering in front of him, blurred by his unfocused vision and the little black spots dancing around. “Buck, hey, come on, look at me.” He grabs Bucky’s hand, pulling two fingers up to the pulse point at his neck. 

“Steve?” Another round of tremors wracks through him and it _hurts_ and he bites his tongue and he might be bleeding because he’s not supposed to taste copper, right? He gags on it, gasping. “I’m dying. ‘M sorry.” He doesn’t want to die again. He doesn’t want Steve to see him die again. That’s what made Old Steve hate him and decide he deserved Hydra. 

“Hey, hey, Buck.” Steve tries to smile but it’s wobbly and Bucky can barely see anyway. “Bucky, listen to me. You’re having a panic attack. Okay? You’re not dying. It’s okay, I’m here. I’ve got you. Breathe with me, okay? I know it’s scary, but it’s gonna stop.” 

A panic attack. Huh. That makes sense. He shudders and what the fuck, now he’s cold. He’s _freezing_. “C-c-cold.” 

“Okay.” Steve touches his cheek lightly. “I’m gonna take your boots off and then I’m gonna help you get under the covers, alright?” 

He manages a jerky nod, squeezing his eyes shut. His body doesn’t feel real, he doesn’t feel attached to it as Steve messes with the laces of his boots and tugs them off, as he maneuvers the both of them under the comforter, lying face to face. He says something about counting, about Bucky breathing along to his counting, but Bucky’s ears are ringing and he’s sick and he hates this. 

He floats. 

When he finally comes down, when he opens his eyes and he can breathe even though he hurts all over and his muscles are so heavy he can barely shift his head to look up at Steve in the dim light. 

“Nine, ten, one- Buck?” Steve’s voice is hoarse, tired. One of his arms is folded under his head and he’s holding Bucky’s right hand against his pulse point with the other. 

“Hi,” his throat hurts. 

Steve bites his lip, his shadowed eyes tracking over Bucky’s face. “It’s been a few hours.” 

“Yikes.” It… felt like it lasted for days but also for seconds. “Will you- can I have some water?” 

“Yeah, yeah, of course.” Steve lets go of his hand so gently, easing his arm to rest against the mattress like he knows Bucky doesn’t have the energy to keep it from flopping down. He touches Bucky’s cheek lightly and rolls away, standing from the mattress. “I’ll be right back.” 

He manages a short nod, his eyes falling shut. God, he feels like he was hit by a _truck_. He isn’t sure how much time passes before Steve comes back, but the mattress dips with his weight and Bucky forces his eyes open again. Steve has a water bottle with a straw in it and a bag of the apple chips that Bucky really likes balanced in one hand and he’s fluffing up the pillows with the other. When he has them stacked high enough to his satisfaction, he helps Bucky prop up against them and holds the straw to his lips, sitting cross legged next to him. Bucky gulps down the water greedily, soothing his dry throat. “Thank you.” His voice is still barely more than a whisper. “I don’t- I don’t know why I did that.” 

“You’ve never had an attack like that before?” Steve tilts his head, setting the water aside to open the bag of apples. 

“No.” He gets… anxious. Deeply unsettled, but he doesn’t completely break down in the way that just happened. Even after Hydra, he would have nightmares, he would have flashbacks, he would have times where he just went to bed and stayed there for days without realizing it- the same way he did at Sam’s house after Old Steve had visited. But he doesn’t do _this_. Just the possibility of it ever happening again is enough to send a fresh wave of nausea through him. He shakes his head when Steve offers the apples to him. Does Steve feel like this when he has panic attacks? This bone deep exhaustion? The horrible fear and irrationality and the hot and cold flashes? But he hasn’t really seen Steve go through quite what he did either- Steve’s are short and intense but he bounces back better than Bucky has. “Is it… for you, does it feel like you’re dying?” 

Steve drags his teeth over his lower lip, his brows pulling together. “Not… exactly. When I was younger it did but I didn’t understand what was happening and I do now so I can handle a little better. I don’t think mine have ever lasted as long as yours did though. It- I was scared it wasn’t going to stop. It was almost four hours.” 

“Did you count for that entire time?” Bucky stares at him. 

“Yeah,” Steve ducks his head, “I didn’t know what else to do. I wish I could have made it better faster.” 

But… that- “You don’t hate me for it?” He hates that he even feels like he has to ask that. Just this morning that thought wouldn’t have crossed his mind but now that seeing Old Steve brought back all the awful fear and the feeling of not ever being _good enough_ , it’s all he can think about. Something he did must have caused it. 

Steve’s face twists up, his lips curving down into a frown and his eyes sad. “Of _course_ not. I would never hate you, not for anything. You hear me? Not for _anything_. I hate that you had to experience this, especially as badly as you did. I know how scary it is; I never wanted you to have to know it too.” He sets the apples aside and leans forward to kiss Bucky’s forehead. “I love you.” 

“Are you sure?” 

“I _promise_ I love you.” Steve’s voice breaks and his eyes are filled with tears when Bucky looks up at him. “I hate him for doing this to you. I _hate_ him. I wish I knew how to make it stop hurting. But I’m here. And I _love_ you. And I’m gonna marry you and we’re gonna buy a stupidly overpriced house in California and we’re gonna learn how to be happy again. Okay?” 

“Yeah,” Bucky tugs Steve to lie down next to him and presses as close to him as he can possibly get. “Tell me again.” 

“I love you,” he whispers, breathing the words desperately. “I love you, I love you, _I love you_. I’ll never stop. I promise I’ll never stop.” 

Each time Steve says it, it loosens the terrible knot of fear in his stomach just a little. “Thank you.” 

“Don’t gotta thank me,” Steve echoes the words he’d spoken on the roof of the van that night in the Badlands. He cards his fingers softly through Bucky’s hair. 

“I know. I want to.” He kisses Steve’s collarbone, peeking out of the loose neck of his t-shirt, his eyes falling shut. He’s so _tired_. “Love you too. If I fall asleep, you’ll be here when I wake up, right?” 

“Always.” 

***

Bucky hasn’t been hungover in a _long_ time but he sure as fuck feels like he went on a bender when they head to SWORD headquarters at nine in the morning. He’s sensitive to the lights and the sounds and he’s got a killer headache. But he forces himself to get up and get dressed and he probably drinks too much coffee and acts too clingy but Steve doesn’t seem to mind. He lets Bucky stick close to his side, kisses him gently- forehead, nose, and lips- every time Bucky looks up at him. It helps. 

He really doesn’t want to do more paperwork but they’ve gotta get all this shit done today before they get back to New York tomorrow. Sharon takes them up to the same room they had been in the day before but the stack of papers seems to have grown. Delightful. Bucky slumps down into his seat, hooking his ankle around Steve’s under the table. 

Sharon passes Steve the folder from yesterday and explains where he needs to sign to confirm everything that Old Steve had signed over. “You can see the beginning balance of the bank account and the current balance after we withdrew enough to cover the original Steve’s care for the next fifteen years. However, if he passes away in that time then whatever remaining amount will be refunded to you, excluding funeral expenses.” She glances over at Bucky, hesitating. “If he doesn’t, then there is a clause in the paperwork that allows us to withdraw from the account again yearly until he passes. I… don’t see us needing to use it, but it had to be included, just in case.” 

“Of course,” Steve looks a little faint staring at the number amount on the page anyway. Bucky leans over his shoulder to peer at the bank statement which is… just a little over ten million. It’s higher than he thought it would be, especially considering SWORD already took enough out to cover care for fifteen years. Being an Avenger must have paid _well_ but Steve had never mentioned it during their visits in Wakanda. Not that it really matters. 

When Steve has filled out all of the paperwork, Sharon hands him a folder and says, “This is all yours to keep.” Inside there’s a birth certificate, a social security card, driver’s license, passport, and the deeds and keys to a motorcycle and an apartment in the Upper East Side- right across the street from the Met. Sharon taps the apartment ownership deed. “He bought it right after the snap but he never lived there- he told me yesterday after you left. He intended to and it’s furnished, but he told me he couldn’t manage to spend even one night there even though he tried over and over through the years because he thought it could be home but it turned out it wasn’t what he was looking for,” she shrugs. “Guess he was looking for the past.” 

“No, he wasn’t,” Steve says softly. He doesn’t elaborate, but he doesn’t have to as he glances over at Bucky. 

Home isn’t a place. It’s each other. 

It hurts, to imagine Steve wandering around a place that should have been a home and finding it so lonely that he couldn’t stay. To think of him drowning in his own head, in the grief and the guilt. Giving up his emotions because he couldn’t bear to feel anymore. But he isn’t really thinking of Old Steve at all; the picture in his head is the Steve that’s sitting right next to him. He’ll do anything to make sure that he never has to go through that. 

They’ve been through enough. The cycle of death and grief and resurrection and relief and death again _has_ to end. It’s their turn to finally get a happy ending at last. 

Sharon goes through some more paperwork, a bunch of shit they need to sign to officially be retired- what it means is that the government can’t call them in to any mission or battle and they can’t go looking for any. Bucky’s never been happier to sign his name in his life. It’s been… a long time since he’d opened his draft letter in the kitchen of a slum apartment in DUMBO and felt his heart stop in his chest. He’s finally, really, _officially_ free. Steve does hesitate over signing his name on that form- only for a second before he breathes out, his shoulders relaxing, and writes _Steven Grant Rogers_ neatly across the bottom of the page. 

They have to go over a few more things; mostly just a long debrief on what is classified and the NDAs that anyone- like a therapist- will have to sign before they talk about anything. Sharon assures them that Sam has a list of therapists that he trusts and has vetted for them to go over when they get back to New York. 

When they finally, _finally_ get out of the building, it’s evening and Bucky is still exhausted but he doesn’t want to go back to the hotel just yet. They end up walking around the National Mall, hand in hand, just talking. Bucky brushes his hair out of his eyes, looking over at Steve. His cheeks are rosy pink from the chilly air, but he’s smiling. Bucky nudges him with his elbow, “So….”

Steve looks over at him expectantly, squeezing his hand. “Yeah?” 

“You said something last night about the California house.” He’d been too wrung out to really process what Steve had said at the time but it’s definitely something they should discuss. “Do you want to buy it?” They now have an apartment in New York so they don’t _need_ to worry about a living situation, but Bucky still doesn’t want to be there long term so they need to at least start thinking about what they want to do. If Steve decides he wants to stay in New York, then Bucky will too but he wants them to be on the same page at least. 

“I really do,” Steve pulls him over to a nearby bench and sits down. “I’ve had time to come to terms with the price tag on it and… I really liked it, Buck. The sunroom….”

Bucky doesn’t sit beside him, stepping into the space between his knees instead. He cards his right hand through the long hair falling in Steve’s eyes, pushing it away from his forehead. “You need a haircut,” he murmurs, resting his hand against the side of Steve’s face. “So what do you want to do with the New York apartment then?” Steve’s name is the one on the deed so it’s up to him to decide what to do with it in the end. 

“Well, it’ll probably take a while to get the house, right? We can stay there for now, but I don’t want to live there permanently.” Steve leans into his touch, his eyes fluttering closed. “Sucks that we’re getting back just in time for winter.” 

“I can call the realtor in the morning but we may be stuck in New York for a while over therapy.” He frowns when Steve grimaces. “You’ve gotta go, Sweetheart. I’m gonna go too, hell, after last night I _need_ to go.” 

“I just….” Steve shakes his head, chewing on his lower lip. “When I came out of the ice, SHIELD put me through _therapy_. They stuck me in a windowless room for three days and made me learn a bunch of history of the time I missed and told me all the things I’m not allowed to say and then this woman kept asking me if I felt like killing myself. Which I _did_ but I didn’t tell _her_ that because she was mean and I wouldn’t have told her even if she was nice.” 

“Oh, Baby, no,” he tilts Steve’s head up so he can kiss his forehead. This definitely explains a lot about why Steve metaphorically drags his feet every time Bucky brings up therapy. Fuck, who thought sticking a deeply traumatized person in a situation like that and calling it therapy was a good idea? It was more likely to scare Steve away from getting help forever rather than do him any good. Which… is probably what happened with Old Steve. He didn’t have Bucky there to push him towards getting better. He didn’t have _anyone_ for a long time. “It’s not gonna be like that, I promise. My therapist that I saw in Wakanda literally came to where I was staying so that I didn’t have to go to him.” It had helped him to open up about everything, being able to talk about it in his comfort zone, whether that be sitting in his hut or walking around and playing with the animals while they talked. 

“Really?” 

“Really. We’ll try who Sam recommends and if we don’t end up liking them, then we’ll find different ones. As many times as we have to. I won’t lie, therapy is _hard_ , but I would only be a shell of a person if I hadn’t finally gone and gotten my shit somewhat together.” After the Snaps, his shit had clearly fallen apart again though so he’s gotta figure that out, _again_. “It gets easier- the longer you go, the more comfortable you get with the person you’re talking to. But you have to put effort into it.” 

“I want to get better,” his voice is quiet, low enough that anyone passing by couldn’t hear him. “I want to, Buck. I’ll _try_ , I promise.” 

“I love you.” He smiles as Steve wraps his arms around the small of his back, pulling him even closer, into a hug. His head rests against Bucky’s rib cage, Bucky’s fingers carding softly though his hair as they stand there, soaking each other in until the sun has set. 

***

The New York skyline greets them on the horizon as they approach the city, leaving Jersey behind them. It looks exactly the same as it had when they left nearly a month earlier, but it feels different coming back. They’re the ones who have changed, grown into new versions of themselves. The traffic is just as bad as expected- Thanksgiving travelers already, maybe. Bucky keeps one hand on the wheel and the other on the gearshift. First thing on the agenda this week after unpacking and visiting with Sam and Sage is to get rid of this van- much as he’s enjoyed having it to travel in- it eats gas like nothing else and it’s not suited for urban driving. They need something smaller and newer for the winter. 

They’re going to the apartment first- it’s only ten in the morning so they have plenty of time to get everything unpacked before heading to meet Sam and Sage for a late lunch. Likely they’ll need to go to Target too- they’ll need cleaning supplies at the very least. If the apartment has been sitting furnished but unlived in for all this time, every surface probably has at least an inch of dust coating it. Just because Steve won’t have an asthma attack upon stepping inside doesn’t mean either of them will want to leave it even a day. 

Steve is singing along to the music- he’s taken a liking to Zayn’s music and they’ve been listening to those albums over the past week or so. “Talk to me, let’s go deeper,” he croons, smirking over at Bucky as they turn onto 5th Avenue. “You already know I need you. We ain’t keeping no secrets, I wanna see you, leave on the lights.” 

“Is this your favorite song?” Bucky asks drily, drumming his fingers against the steering wheel. They’re only a block away from the apartment, but at the rate the traffic is moving- which is not at all- it’ll take them a year to get there. 

“Dunno,” Steve grins. “I haven’t heard _all_ the songs out there yet so who am I to say?” It’s a far cry from the way he had been nearly apathetic towards what music they listened to when they had started their trip. Not that it’s a huge deal either way, but it’s so nice to watch him opening up like this. 

The traffic finally inches forward and they finally reach their building. The condo complex has underground parking- they don’t have a car tag for the space yet but Steve shows the guard his brand new ID and the deed and they get directed to a spot right next to the elevators. Bucky parks the car, leaning back against the seat and blowing out a breath. As of this moment, the road trip is over. Now they have to figure out how to begin to build a permanent life. Gucci leaps into the front seat- she’s mostly stayed in the back while they drive, not appreciating the way Bucky has to push her off him so he can drive or the way the Steve dumps her right back in the back if she gets in his space. Bucky scoops her against his chest, “I hope you don’t mind being a city cat.” 

“Well,” Steve releases his seatbelt, stretching as he pushes his door open. “At least we shouldn’t have any problems with rats. One look at her face and they’ll run away in horror.” 

“Rude.” Bucky steps out of the car, holding Gucci over his shoulder somewhat like a baby but also like a sack of potatoes since she insists on going limp every time he carries her anywhere. “I say we go up with whatever we can carry and actually find out where it is and then come back down for the rest of our shit. It’ll probably take several trips, honestly.” 

The keys jingle as Steve twirls the key ring around his pointer finger. “Sounds good to me.” He circles around to the back door of the van, pulling it open to shoulder four duffel bags and the ice chest. The van is a mess, since they left the Grand Canyon they’ve been staying in hotels and had no need to make sure to keep the pallet clear for them to sleep on, so they’ve gotten sloppy, unorganized. 

He grabs the shield and Mjolnir, rolling his eyes at Steve’s proud smile when he lifts the hammer. Sure, it’s cool to know he’s _worthy_ , he guesses, but he doesn’t really want to base his worth on whether or not he can pick up an alien hammer either. And he hates the tiny currents of electricity that zing through him as he wraps his hand around the handle, how it feels like tiny fishhooks grabbing him and holding him fast. It doesn’t hurt like the Chair had, but it still makes him uneasy. “Don’t get used to it.” 

Their apartment is on the seventh floor and they manage to make it up without running into anyone else in the building. The key sticks in the lock- probably because it hasn’t been used much but nothing a little grease won’t fix- and Steve grimaces and jiggles it until the door opens with a creak of hinges. It’s definitely dusty inside, motes dancing in the light spilling in through the windows. The furniture is all covered in tarps though, so that’s something. Gucci sneezes and twists in his hold to jump down to the floor. He lets her go so he can set the shield and the hammer on the table just inside the door. There’s a few dust covered envelopes, too. He glances at them but doesn’t disturb them. For all that the sounds of the city can still be heard, it almost feels like a tomb as they walk through the apartment together. He can see the things that would have drawn Steve in the first place- big windows and good lighting, open floor plan, prewar molding. It’s just the right balance between modern and classic. There’s one bedroom- a king bed, unmade, with an en suite. The guest room holds easels and canvasses and all kinds of art supplies, all untouched. There’s more cooking appliances and utensils in the kitchen than either of them probably know what to do with. And three things stuck to the fridge with tiny magnets shaped like Captain America, Black Widow, and the Falcon. 

The first is a note in spiky handwriting that reads: _Steve, if you need me, all you have to do is call. I’ll be there. We’ll get through this, we’ll get them back. –Nat_. The second is a faded photograph, a snapshot of one of their visits in Wakanda. It’s Steve asleep with his head in Bucky’s lap and Bucky absently stroking his hand through Steve’s hair while he read Harry Potter aloud. Bucky’s swallows hard and looks away, at the third. It’s a letter, in Steve’s handwriting. It has his name at the top. He reaches out and frees it from the magnet, tilting it into the light so he can read the tear smudged ink. 

_Bucky, you’re never going to read this. I didn’t believe it at first, but it’s been a year now. We went to space and we killed Thanos and we got nothing. Nobody came back. It was an empty victory, not really victory at all. Sure, that purple motherfucker isn’t going to hurt anyone again, but what difference does it make when I still don’t have you back? I guess it’s my fault- for ever getting hung up on you, forever unattainable you, in the first place. I thought it was the worst thing in the world when you died the first time, falling from that train. At least I thought it was fast, at least I thought I knew where you were. I don’t know what happened to you this time. I don’t know where you went. I can’t even try killing myself again to get to you because I know now it doesn’t work and I can’t do that to Nat and even if it did work, who knows if I would find you in the next life? Death by a bunch of shiny space stones isn’t exactly regular death, is it? What if you are out there somewhere? On another planet, maybe. I wish I could get back on that spaceship and search the entire fucking cosmos until I found you. Until I found Sam and T’challa and Shuri and Wanda and everyone else. You can’t just be gone like that. I bought an apartment and it’s really nice but I can’t even care about it because it’s so lonely. I’m just alone… all of the time. Fuck, I don’t know what to do now. You’re gone and you’ve been gone for a year and there’s no relief from the grief. It just feels like I can’t breathe again. Worse than it ever did through the asthma and the bouts of pneumonia. You were the bright star I orbited around and now there’s nothing to keep me here in the light, to pull me back from being sucked into the endless nothing. I haven’t slept in weeks. I just walk around the city and I try to help the people that I can and remember I’m not the only person who lost someone. Everyone lost people. I’m not special because I lost you and I lost Sam. But it won’t stop hurting and I’m so, so tired of feeling like this. I tried crushing an entire bottle of antidepressants into a smoothie to see if it would do anything but nothing even happened. It didn’t make me feel less like shit. I guess I deserve it. I had the gauntlet in my hands and I didn’t get it off him. I didn’t stop him. I’ve been trying to give you up, I have. I knew from the moment you went into cryo that I would never have you but I wanted you anyway. I made do with the visits in Wakanda and I didn’t let myself stay too long because if I spent any length of time at all with you I wouldn’t have been able to keep myself from telling you everything. There’s a part of me that still hopes for a spontaneous resurrection, a tiny bit that won’t stop believing that I’ll get a third chance, that I’ll get you back again. But I won’t. You’re dead for good this time. I know. I gathered your ashes. There’s no coming back from that. The stones are gone, there’s nothing to be done but move on. I hate the thing I become without you. It’s like being dangled above this gaping mouth and waiting to be swallowed up. I’m letting it take me this time. I have to. Or I won’t make it. I’ve tried to be a person, but I’m not one. Maybe I never was. I certainly feel like a broken record trying to pull my thoughts together enough to write this. I guess this is goodbye, Bucky Barnes. You were the great love of my life and I will be forever grateful to you for everything you ever did for me. I hope your spirit is out there somewhere, maybe in space. You always loved space. I hope you’re gathering up the stars and holding them tight and I hope to god that you’re happy. I wish we had gotten a chance; I wish I didn’t hate the world and hate existing. But soft epilogues are for fiction and real life never made for anything but a tragic story. I miss you more than anything. –Steve_.

Bucky’s knees give out and he slides down to the floor, clutching the letter against his chest as he bows his head and lets the tears fall. For himself, for the Steve Rogers that sat somewhere in this apartment and cried as he wrote that letter and gave up the very last of himself to even be able to keep going at all. For his Steve now- crouching in front of him, worried- and the soft epilogue that they’re _going_ to get, in spite of it all. “I’m okay, I’m okay,” he gasps, folding the leather and shoving it in the pocket of his jacket. He leans up, pressing a kiss to Steve’s lips, tasting the salt on his own lips. Steve twines their fingers together, the cool metal of his ring against Bucky’s skin. “I’m gonna make you happy. I’m never gonna let you be lonely.” 

“You already make me happy, Bucky.” 

Real life can be a tragic story but fuck it; it can be a soft epilogue too. He’s gonna make sure of it. 

***

Sage throws herself at Bucky almost as soon as he and Steve step foot in the little café. He catches her with a laugh and spins her around once before setting her down on her feet again. “Hey, kiddo. How’s it goin’?” 

Her hair had been bright pink when they’d left and it’s a silvery color now, spilling around her shoulders from under a blue beanie. She wrinkles her nose- still rosy from the cold outside- and rocks back on the heels of her boots. “Nope. You left me on read, you asshole. Do I get to be your maid of honor or not?” 

He rolls his eyes, “Yes, you can be my maid of honor. Happy?” He hadn’t meant to leave her on read, but he’d gotten all distracted with Steve and forgotten. She’s as good a choice as any to have as a maid of honor, her and Shuri being the closest he’s had to little sisters in a long time. 

“Yep!” Sage steps back to look between the two of them. “You’ll have to tell all about the proposal but Sam probably wants to hear too. He’s holding a table back there,” she waves toward a back corner, behind a divider. 

Bucky coughs, glancing over at Steve, at the slow smirk spreading across his face. Yeah, there’s no way they’re gonna say how the proposal really went, no way. They don’t have shit rehearsed though so what the hell are they supposed to say when they inevitably get asked about it? “Yeah, ‘course.” His voice pitches up, just a little. Just enough to make Steve snort and duck his head, laughing childishly. 

“Cool,” Sage squints at them and then shrugs, turning on her heel to head over to where Sam apparently is. 

“Shut up, it’s not funny,” Bucky hisses under his breath as they follow her, squeezing Steve’s hand in warning. “We need a cover, _fast_.”

“It kind of is funny, Buck.” 

They don’t have any time to finish the conversation because they round the corner and Sam lurches up from his seat with a grin, pulling first Bucky and then Steve into a hug. “It’s good to see you both again.” 

“You too,” Bucky holds on to him a little longer than necessary. For all that they had griped at each other before, he doesn’t know what he would do without Sam now. He’s done so much to help both of them, even though this Steve doesn’t even know him. That has to be fucking hard, but he hasn’t hesitated to help them in any way he can- talking to Bucky on the phone for hours after the incident at the Canyon, telling him the best ways to help Steve, vetting therapists for them before they even got back to New York. So he squeezes Sam extra tight and whispers, “Thank you,” before letting him go and sitting down at the table. 

They make small talk until they’ve ordered, but as soon as the waitress walks away from their table, Sage points her finger at them. “Alright, I want the details. Who asked who? How did it happen? When is the wedding?” 

“I asked.” Steve’s foot bumps against Bucky’s under the table. He doesn’t elaborate any further, sitting back in his seat with a little shit eating smirk on his face, looking over at Bucky. 

“ _How_ did you ask though?” Sam, the traitor, leans forward, squinting at them suspiciously. “I know you, Steve. What’s with that look on your face?” 

Bucky buries his face in his hands. They don’t have any cover story and Steve’s face has already given away too much to brush it off as a simple ‘oh, he wrote it out in alphabet soup’ or what the fuck ever might pop into his head. 

“ _Wellllll_ ,” Steve drags the word out like he’s waiting for Bucky to tell him to stop, tapping his foot against Bucky’s again. Bucky nudges him back but there’s nothing to do but let him speak at this point. “I mean… he was literally inside me, so….”

“We haven’t set a date yet.” Bucky offers weakly. “You can’t just _say_ it like that, _Steve_.” He’d been expecting something more like ‘we were in bed’ or maybe even a milder ‘we were cuddling’. _Not_ ‘he was literally inside me’. He shouldn’t be surprised. Steve doesn’t have much of a filter at all, now that there are no laws demanding one. Bucky doesn’t have that many reservations about it either- not enough to actually care that Steve just said it like that. There’s a part of him that wants to be smug because _fuck, yeah, he was_.

“You know what; I’m not surprised at all.” Sam rolls his eyes and lifts his glass of water. 

“You’re valid,” Sage shrugs, “carry on.” 

“Christmas. I want a Christmas wedding.” The words are quiet, Steve twisting his ring around his finger as he glances over at Bucky. 

Bucky sucks in a breath. Christmas. That’s… “Steve, that’s in a month.” They don’t necessarily need anything big and fancy but… that’s still an alarmingly close date. 

“Rockefeller Center. Right under the tree.” 

When Steve looks up at him with the big, pleading eyes, he’s done for. Bucky sighs, rubbing his fingers across the bridge of his nose. Christmas really isn’t a big deal to him; he hadn’t celebrated it growing up but it’s Steve’s favorite holiday. “Whatever you want, Sweetheart.” He doesn’t even know if Rockefeller Center even allows weddings, but they’ll find a way around it because what Steve wants, Steve gets. That’s the philosophy Bucky has lived by and will continue to live by because he is _goddamn_ whipped and happy to stay that way. Steve sits back in his seat with a satisfied little smile as the waitress returns, balancing a tray in the crook of her arm. 

They spend the rest of the meal mostly talking about the trip and about their plans to buy the house in California. Sam and Sage are both shocked by that but Sam recovers quickly and says it makes sense that they might want to get out of New York. Sage pokes at her salad quietly, avoiding eye contact. 

Bucky pulls her aside as they’re walking toward the front of the café. Sam is talking to Steve about “What’s wrong?” He asks quietly, peering at her. 

“It’s nothing,” she huffs, trying to pull away. When he doesn’t let go she rolls her eyes and looks up at him. “It’s _stupid_. I just thought you were gonna stick around, but no one ever does.” 

Her words slam into him with more force than she probably intended. He swallows hard. “Sage-”

“Don’t. It’s fine. I’m not trying to guilt trip you.” She sighs, flicking her hair over her shoulder. “Just… you’ll visit right?” 

“Of course,” he promises, stepping in to hug her. Poor, poor kid. Shit, she barely knows him but because he showed her kindness and actually cared about what she had to say, she’s attached. “And we’ll be here through the winter at least. And you can come out to California anytime you want, too. You’re family now. You’re always welcome.” He squeezes her gently and steps back. “As long as you don’t mind cats.” 

“You got a _cat?_ Pictures. Now.” 

***

Bucky manages to hold himself back from saying anything until they’ve got the apartment pretty much free of dust and have the bed made before he pins Steve up against a wall, holding his wrists above his head with his left hand. “ _He was literally inside me? Really?_ ”

“I didn’t hear you complaining at the time.” Steve flexes his wrists, biting down on his lower lip. 

“You’re a menace,” Bucky groans and kisses him hard, getting his free hand up under the front of Steve’s shirt, feeling the way his abs clench and relax rhythmically as Bucky fucks his tongue into Steve’s mouth. “You’re such a-” He drops his hands to Steve’s thighs, hoisting him up, wrapping his legs around Bucky’s waist and keeping him balanced with his back still against the wall. 

“I’m such a what?” Steve teases, nosing along the curve of Bucky’s neck. “A slut? You can say it, I don’t mind.” 

They’ve been fucking around regularly since New Orleans and each time, Steve encourages a little more dirty talk, a little more playing, the wonder and desperation of the first few times giving way to teasing and pushing each other’s buttons. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” It’s true, too, because once Steve gets in a mood, then he’s fucking _greedy_ for it. He takes, and takes, and takes and Bucky _loves_ it. He’ll give Steve anything he fucking wants. They’d tried switching roles once, but even trusting Steve as much as he does, the vulnerability in it had made Bucky uneasy and Steve had stopped and refused to try it that way again. It's okay. 

“C’mon, Buck.” Steve squeezes his thighs around Bucky’s waist, breathing hot against his ear. “Say it. Tell me how you _really_ feel.” 

Bucky spins him away from the wall, stumbling across the room to toss him down on the newly made bed. He leans back, looking over the man laid out across the sheets. He’s flushed, his eyes sparkling with laughter, kiss bitten lips slick and parted. “You look _so_ pretty,” Bucky bends down to kiss him again, fumbling for the hem of his shirt and pushing it up, up, up. “I think I’ll just eat you right up.” 

“Cannibalism?” There’s mock shock in Steve’s gasp as he lifts his arms and helps Bucky pull the shirt all the way off. “You _heathen_.” His hands find the buttons on Bucky’s shirt, fumbling at them for a moment, his fingers slipping on them as he gets frustrated and finally just rips it open. The clatter of buttons hitting the floor and rolling away brings a grin to his face. 

“I _liked_ this shirt,” Bucky pouts at him. 

“I’ll sew ‘em back on later.” 

Bucky leans down to kiss him, bracing his elbows beside Steve’s head. “Gonna do the mending? Careful, Stevie, you’re starting to sound like a kept man.” 

“Like I haven’t been patching and washing your dumb clothes since I was eighteen?” Steve rolls them over, straddling Bucky’s hips and rocking down lazily, his eyelashes fluttering at the friction. “That stupid sport coat you had that you were always ripping holes in-”

“ _Hey_ , that was mostly your fault for getting in so many damn fights every time we went out. If I didn’t have to get into a brawl every time I wore my good coat, it wouldn’t have had so many holes. And I looked _damn_ good in it.” Bucky settles his hands firmly around Steve’s ass, squeezing, guiding him to roll down against Bucky’s dick harder. 

Steve gasps, his head dropping forward against Bucky’s shoulder. “It was stupid. The shoulders were too damn wide for your body.” 

“It was _fashion_.” Granted, he probably wouldn’t be caught dead in anything like it now. He’d nicked it from a shipment coming through the docks and it had been too big for him but he’d worn it to absolute pieces. 

“Fuck you and your fashion.” 

“Yeah, you’re trying, aren’t you?” 

Steve leans back, pushing his hair away from his forehead. His pupils are blown wide as he meets Bucky’s gaze. “You got a problem with that? Because I got _plans_.”

“W-what kind of plans?” He decidedly does not have a problem with anything Steve might come up with. 

“Hm,” Steve hums, sucking his lower lip between his teeth and tapping his finger against his chin. “I _think_ I’ll make good on a few promises… open myself up real good and sit on it.” 

“Oh, god,” Bucky groans, gripping Steve’s chin in his left hand and kissing him roughly. Steve melts into it, his mouth dropping open against Bucky’s, fingers tangling in his hair. “You’re gonna kill me, Baby. I swear.” He runs his right hand across the waistband of Steve’s sweatpants before dipping beneath it to palm his bare ass. The little shit ain’t even wearing underwear. 

Steve grins wolfishly and reaches over to grab the lube Bucky had tossed on the nightstand while unpacking earlier. He lets Bucky’s hands roam, dipping to trace his finger around the pucker of his hole for as long as it takes him to get the bottle but when he sits up again he shoves Bucky’s hands away with a teasing, “No touching, Mister Barnes.” He climbs off Bucky long enough to get his sweatpants down, tossing them over his shoulder. “I’m trying to put on a show here.” 

He has to shove his hands under his head as Steve straddles him again to keep from reaching out, keep from guiding Steve to sit over his chest instead so he can suck his leaking cock as far down his throat as he can get it. “Well, you know how much I love watching the pictures, you big movie star.” His eyes track over the ripple of Steve’s abs, over the flex of muscle in his thighs as he slicks up his fingers and rises on his knees. 

“ _Fuck_ ,” Steve breathes out quietly, his hips shifting down. He’s got one hand resting against Bucky’s chest for balance, right over his heart. 

With them facing each other, Bucky can’t actually see what he’s doing with his other hand but he can _damn_ well imagine it. He’s half tempted to ask Steve to turn around, to let him get a good look at it, but he’s more enraptured with the faces he’s making. “You’re so damn pretty, Baby,” he says hoarsely, watching the blush spreading across Steve’s cheeks. “So pretty when you’re all pink like this. Pretty the rest of the time, too, but I could watch you blush forever. That feel good?” He wants to reach up, to pinch at Steve’s nipples and maybe stick a finger or three in his mouth to feel the way he moans around them. But Steve said no touching, so he breathes out, shuddery, and keeps his hands firmly laced under his head. 

“Not pretty,” Steve grumbles but he’s smiling as he leans down to kiss Bucky sloppily. “It’ll feel better when I’m ridin’ you. Promised I would. Hope that fucker is jealous. But you’re all _mine_ , aren’t you, Buck? Ain’t gotta share you with anyone.” He breathes the words into Bucky’s mouth, low and rough. 

“All yours,” Bucky promises, “I’ll give you anything you want. You know that, right? Doesn’t matter what it is, if you want it, it’s yours.” 

“The only thing I want right now is- _shit_ \- is your dick inside me.” 

“You’re the one who told me not to touch.” He sinks his teeth into Steve’s swollen lower lip. “So, you wanna take that back and let me do it or do you wanna take what you want and do the work yourself?” He pauses to lean back, looking up at Steve through his lashes because, dammit, if Steve can pull that move, so can he. 

Steve grunts, his eyes falling closed. His cock drags wetly between their abdomens as he rocks his hips back against his fingers. “I’ll do it. I wanna do it.” He pulls his fingers free with a squelching noise and leans back to get at the fly of Bucky’s jeans. “Not even gonna take these off,” he fumbles the button open and yanks down the zipper. “Just gonna get ‘em down far enough to pull you out.” He’s true to his word, tugging them and the briefs under them low enough on Bucky’s hips to pull his dick out. 

Bucky hisses as Steve drizzles the cold lube over the length of him, followed by his tight fist jacking him, slicking him up. “C’mon, Baby. C’mon, Stevie,” he begs. The elastic of his underwear is chafing under his balls but he doesn’t give a shit and the zipper is pulled down far enough that it won’t scrape. “Thought you needed it.” 

“I do. I do need it.” Steve looks fucked out just saying the words, his eyelids heavy as he watches the movement of his fist over Bucky’s cock. “Need you all the time.” 

“Then stop playing around and take it,” He rakes his teeth over his bottom lip, his heart thudding against his chest. “Slut.” Name calling, not really his thing, never was- unless it was pet names- but the second the word falls from his lips, Steve’s hand spasms. He squeezes like a vice grip for a moment before jerking away and scrambling up Bucky’s body to get in position. Steve _likes_ a little degradation, it lights a fire in him, whether that be on the battlefield or in bed. So Bucky can say the words that get him going, even if it does nothing for him. He’s just happy to have his baby here, in his lap. He curses low under his breath as Steve reaches behind him to grasp Bucky’s cock again, to guide him to press blunt against the slick heat of him. “Yeah, Sweetheart. C’mon. Know you want it.” 

“God,” Steve chokes out, sinking onto him. His eyes fall shut, his brows pulled together as his fingers trace around his hole, over where Bucky is disappearing inside of him. “ _Fuck_ , Bucky.” 

If he could fucking _touch_ him, Bucky would be digging his fingers into the shaking muscle of Steve’s thighs. He’d be sitting up and pulling Steve’s head back with a fist in his hair so he could suck hickeys across his collarbones and bite at his nipples. “You look like a dream,” he gasps as Steve shoves down and takes him all the way in. “Shit, Baby. I’ve half a mind to keep you right here forever. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” 

“Yeah, yeah I would,” Steve groans, grinding down, rolling his hips forward and back again. He doesn’t lift up, just works their point of contact like a goddamn pro. It’s enough to have Bucky’s eyes rolling back in his head, the way Steve moves his hips. He’s hot as a goddamn furnace too, his thighs rock hard against Bucky’s hips as he clenches down on him. He grins manically as Bucky writhes under him. “As _if_ you’d be the one keeping me here and not the other way ‘round. I got your number, Buck.” 

“Fuckin’ _brat_.” Bucky shifts as Steve finally rises up. He gets his feet braced against the mattress so that when Steve goes to slide back down, he can fuck his hips up in a brutal thrust. Steve falls forward with a pitchy moan, catching himself against Bucky’s chest. “I got _your_ number, Baby.” 

“Oh, God, do it again,” Steve whines, the side of his face pillowed against Bucky’s chest. He arches his back, bracing himself with his hands in a bruising grip around Bucky’s biceps. “ _Again_.”

“Slut,” Bucky tells him again, fondly, and pistons his hips into Steve, hard. Steve rocks back into each thrust, his fingers digging into the meat of Bucky’s bicep harder and harder. It _hurts_ but it’s the kind of pain that’s gonna be good later, when he looks in the mirror after and sees the fingerprints and the scratch marks that will heal by morning. He breathes harshly, fisting his fingers in his own hair so that he doesn’t touch, doesn’t change the position that Steve put them in. 

Steve’s all but sobbing against him, heavy, punched out gasps of air hot on Bucky’s skin. “Please- oh fuck, please-” 

“Please what? What do you want?” 

He scrambles, sitting upright again and pulling Bucky up with him. “ _Touch_ me, Bucky, _please_.”

No need to ask twice. Bucky cups the back of Steve’s head with his left hand, kissing him messy, more tongue than anything else. He shoves his right hand between their bodies, jerking hard and fast at Steve’s dick. 

Steve drops his head back with a wrecked moan, his hands digging into Bucky’s thighs for leverage as he fucking _bounces_. 

“Fuckin’ love getting my hands on you,” Bucky bites across his jaw, tasting the salt on his skin. “Nothing like it in the world. You’re so _fucking_ responsive. Never had anyone like you.” And he’s had a fair number of people in his bed throughout his lifetime. None of them can even come close to touching the way Steve falls apart for him. He’s goddamn hooked on it. 

“It’s you. ‘S just you, Buck.” Steve looks up at him, red faced and to fucking die for, his tongue darting out across his lips. “Always been you.” When Bucky twists his hand just under the head of his dick, he hunches forward with a hoarse cry and comes, hot between their bodies. 

It’s more the words than anything else that sends Bucky over the edge. He pants into the curve of Steve’s neck, his hips jerking as his vision whites out for a long, blissful moment. They end up overbalancing and sprawling back on the mattress. 

Steve laughs as he catches himself just before their noses would have mashed together painfully. He holds himself up, his hair tickling Bucky’s forehead, grinning. “Welcome home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> #STEVEROGERS: respect slut rights or perish!


	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ....sorry i went MIA and didn't update for a month. school was kicking my ass. also i had to do so much research on the therapy scenes that i felt like i should just go sign up for psychology classes. sorry if i got any of the details wrong, i did my best. all of the resources i have them using are real i wasn't just making them up. also in my defense, this chapter is nearly twenty five thousand words long so grab a snack and a blanket and settle in bc you will be reading for a While. more notes at the end of the chapter :)

Steve’s therapist is an older woman named Amelia with the kind of soft features that Sarah Rogers had once upon a time. She greets him with a handshake and a smile and asks if it would be any trouble to get some hot water for tea. After he’s gotten the water- heated in the coffee pot because they don’t have a teapot- she drops little bags of lavender-orange tea into two mugs and offers him one. It’s good, when he sips it tentatively. They settle in the living room, Steve on the couch, Amelia in the chair. He swallows hard, tracing his finger around the rim of his mug. Bucky is in the bedroom- Steve had asked him to sit in through the session but Bucky had kissed him on the forehead and gently told him it would be better if he didn’t. So he’s sitting here alone. With the therapist. Amelia. He sets his mug on the little table next to the couch and shoves his hands under his thighs so she can’t see the way he digs his fingernails into the flesh of his palms. It doesn’t take much pressure for the warmth of blood to smear against his fingertips. 

Her eyes track his movement but she doesn’t comment, instead looking down at the file of paperwork she’s opening. After she had signed the NDA’s, she had emailed the paperwork to him and requested that he had it filled out before their first meeting. He’d nearly had a breakdown going over the checklist of symptoms when he’d had to mark _severe_ on anxiety, depressed mood, grief, guilt, hopelessness, impulsiveness, intrusive thoughts, loss of touch with reality, low esteem, nightmares, panic attacks, phobias, restlessness, self-mutilation, trouble concentrating, and worthlessness. 

The list was _very_ comprehensive. 

He’s known he’s fucked up for a long time but something about having it all laid out plain like that was fucking terrifying. It had asked for number of attempted suicides- four, Bucky had insisted he include the time with the Russian roulette as an attempt, number of times he’s been arrested- a _lot_ , medical history, and as he’s a special case, he’d had to spell out what happened in 2012 with the death of the Winter Soldier and his subsequent travel to this timeline. He’s never seen the worst parts of his life laid out in such cold, unyielding facts before. Congratulations! You’re Messed Up! Here’s a doctor that’s going to fix you by _talking_.

The truth is, he’s really not feeling as positive toward the whole therapy thing as he’s leading Bucky to believe he is. It’s not Bucky’s fault and he doesn’t like lying to him but he doesn’t see how this shit is supposed to help. He doesn’t want to talk, he wants to forget about everything bad that’s happened and never have to think about it again, let alone tell a stranger about it in detail. 

“So, Steve,” Amelia looks up from her papers with a disarming smile, “how are you today?” 

He blinks at her slowly. “Um… fine, I guess?” What is he even supposed to say? This isn’t a normal conversation; he’s probably supposed to go on some deep tangent about his _feelings_. But all he’s really feeling right now is discomfort about having to talk to her in the first place. “How are you?” It’s small talk and it’s fucking stilted and awkward. How is he supposed to actually have a deep conversation? 

“I’m well, thank you for asking.” She crosses one leg over the other, clasping her hands over her knee. “So, generally what I do when I see a new patient is go over the background information packet together and talk about what goals you might have for your progress. The intake paperwork is great for having a general overview, but it doesn’t really help me know _you_ and of course, I am, as of yet, still a stranger to you. If there’s anything that you don’t want to talk about, maybe because you feel that you aren’t ready to share details of certain things yet, you are absolutely allowed to refuse to answer if I ask about it. My goal for today is simply for us to become somewhat comfortable with each other. I usually also take notes during each session. It’s helpful for preparing future sessions and to look back over later and see progress. No one will see them but me. Is that okay with you?” 

“Yeah,” he hates the way his voice shakes already, the way he’s shrinking back against the cushions of the couch and struggling to control his breathing. Why can’t Bucky be here for this? It would be so much easier. “If I have to talk about all of it anyway, might as well get it all over with at once though, right?” The joke is flat even as he says it and he drops his chin to his chest, looking anywhere but at her. God, she probably thinks he’s fucking pathetic. Most fucked up patient award, Steven Grant Rogers. Captain America, everyone. 

He’s not that anymore though, either. 

“Will you please look at me, Steve?” Amelia’s voice is gentle and she waits for him to look up. “You _do not have_ to talk about anything you’re uncomfortable talking about. You don’t even have to talk at all. If you feel like staring at a wall for the entire fifty minutes, you’re allowed to do that. Being here at all is progress, no matter how small. Eventually, I hope you’ll feel at ease enough with me to talk about harder subjects. But for now we don’t have to talk about anything of the sort, if you don’t want to.” 

She pauses, waiting for him to respond. He doesn’t. 

“Another thing I want to make clear is that everything in these sessions is strictly confidential. You know, of course, about the NDA’s I signed before ever meeting you, but even if I hadn’t and you were a regular client, I would never give out any sort of information unless it was medically necessary. That stands for you as well. There are certain things that, should you show indications of- such as if you were planning to kill yourself- I would share with your medical team and your emergency contact.” 

Bucky. It’s not like Bucky doesn’t already know all about his fucked up shit and he doesn’t even have an authorized ‘medical team’ yet so he doesn’t care. “I don’t want to kill myself.” The words sound flat coming from his mouth, but they’re true. He _doesn’t_. He can’t look her in the eye, doesn’t want to see the shrewd disbelief that’s probably written all over her face. Four suicide attempts. He knows it says it on her paperwork right there, plain as day, three of which occurring in the last six months. Of course she won’t believe him. “I only meant to do two of those on that list anyway.” Why the fuck is he even saying this? It doesn’t matter. 

“You know what that tells me?” When he looks up, she smiles at him. “You have things you want to live for. Positive things happening in your life, in spite of the things that make you feel bad. Would you like to talk about them?” 

He runs his thumb over the cool metal of his engagement ring, smiling a little in spite of his mood. It’s not even a secret that he and Bucky are engaged- it’s been splashed all over the news at this point, everyone in the damn world knows- but it still feels like such a new, oh so special thing. His to protect, his to hold close, his to be proud of. “I’m getting married,” he offers, almost shyly. 

“I noticed when reviewing your intake paperwork that you’ve only been in this relationship for a month. Are you feeling secure in your engagement, even after only a short period of time?” 

“I mean, we’ve known each other since we were little kids.” Honestly, they’ve been basically married since 1936 when they moved in together. Without the sex and the acknowledgement of feelings, of course, but still. What else could he call happily living in each other’s pocket every moment they’ve been able to for their entire lives? Making it legal isn’t going to change anything about their relationship, except the fact that he can finally, proudly call Bucky his husband; finally change his name to Steven Barnes. “It’s been a long time coming and we’re both dedicated to each other and have been for as long as we’ve known each other.” The fact that she even needs to ask that is a little offensive, but maybe from an outside perspective getting engaged within a month of dating is a bit fast. Steve doesn’t care. 

“I’m very happy for you both, then. With the circumstances of your relationship, should you ever wish to talk about anything in more detail, you are more than welcome to.” She pulls a clipboard of paper and a pen from her purse. “What do you want to get out of therapy, Steve?” 

“Bucky wants me to get better.” 

“Do _you_ want to get better?” 

He blows a breath out his nose, digging his nails into his palms again. There are scabs already formed over the gouges he had dug into them but he scrapes them off viciously, keeping his hands out of her view. “I’d like to not feel like shit randomly and for no reason when there’s _nothing wrong_ in my life, sure. Is that getting better?” 

“It can be.” She hums, writing something down on her clipboard. “Why don’t we start with overviewing the symptoms you marked down? What is most concerning to you on the list right now?” 

Oh, goody. “Sure.” No, no, _no_. He doesn’t want to talk about any of it. Ever. He might throw up. “I… guess I’m anxious a lot.” This is the easiest on the list to talk about. He’s been living with the panic attacks and the general nerves over everything for so long that it’s easier to face. He’s accepted it about himself a long time ago. 

“About how often do you feel this way and how long has it been occurring?” 

“Almost every day. And since I was about fourteen.” He blankly answers yes or no to the symptoms she lists off. Like a mission report, he confirms flashbacks and panic attacks, winces and shamefully nods when she asks if he experiences body dysmorphia- it’s not often anymore like it used to be every waking moment, but he still fills wrong in this body sometimes. Like he’s borrowed it from someone else. 

They go over every fucking exhausting checkmark on the list. She inquires about his mood and energy level and fucking sex drive. Nightmares, traumatic memories, intrusive thoughts, self-harm, the whole shebang. It’s exhausting but he keeps his jaw clenched and dutifully, _truthfully_ answers, because he’s here to get better. Bucky _told_ him that doesn’t happen without working for it. Fifty minutes have never dragged on so long. 

When their time is finally up, he has a list of shiny new diagnoses- how fitting of him to trade in all of the problems with his body when he got the serum only to end up with a list of things wrong with his mind nearly as long as all the shit he dealt with before. Amelia explains what each of them mean and what symptoms are par for the course with them. Explains her plan of treatment, starting with twelve sessions on a weekly basis and asks him if he has any questions about therapy- he doesn’t, not right now; he’s too tired to think of anything- and leaves him with an ominous, “See you soon.” 

The second he closes the door behind her, the false bravado and energy drains out of him and his shoulders sag. He scrubs his fists across his eyes roughly, turning on his heel to head right for the bedroom. Bucky has noise cancelling earphones in but he still looks up when Steve pushes the door open, tugging the little wireless buds out of his ears and tossing them on the nightstand. “Hey, Sweetheart.” He scoops Gucci off of his lap, ignoring her disgruntled yowl, and sets her down on the floor. She tears past Steve, out the bedroom door just before he can tug it shut. 

“Hi,” Steve’s voice comes out in a near whisper. They’d barely even talked about anything in detail but he’s so drained. He shuffles across the room until he can climb into the bed, curling up on the mattress with his head in Bucky’s lap. “That was hard.” 

“I know,” Bucky soothes, draping their fuzzy yellow blanket over Steve- warm from being wrapped around Bucky’s shoulders. “But you _did it_ and the first step is always the hardest one. I’m so proud of you.”

“I didn’t even do anything. I didn’t make _progress_ , or whatever you wanna call it. I’m still fucked up.” 

“It doesn’t happen all at once, Baby. You do what you can when you can and at first you think, _why am I doing this, nothing is happening_ but then one day you wake up and you feel a little better. And the next day and the next and the next. It’s a gradual thing. And sometimes you might feel worse instead of better. But you’ll get there. And I’ll be here with you through it all.” Bucky’s fingers scrape through his hair gently, carding it back and away from his face. 

“I have PTSD, generalized anxiety disorder, and adjustment disorder with depression,” he recites off the list blankly. “Still wanna marry me?” 

“I have depression and complex PTSD and abandonment issues and probably more shit. You won’t find any judgment from me, Sweetheart. Nothing in the world could make me _not_ wanna marry you. Still wanna marry _me_?”

“Always,” Steve pushes himself up so he can kiss Bucky, tasting the coffee on his lips. “Can we just nap right now though?” 

“Little spoon?” Bucky asks with a soft smile, scooting down under the comforter and holding the blanket up so Steve can get under it with him. 

“Little spoon,” he confirms, fitting his back against Bucky’s chest and sighing as Bucky’s arm wraps warm around his ribs. “Love you.” 

“Love _you_.”

***

Thanksgiving Day finds Steve and Bucky crossing Central Park at 5am to the Upper West Side and meeting Sam and Sage for the Macy’s parade. They’ve got dinner at Sam’s mom’s place later but for now, they’re bundled in thick layers and carting giant thermoses of coffee and snacks. Even for all their fame, they hadn’t gotten any sort of VIP seating so they have to go and secure their place in the crowd four hours before the parade even starts. It’s stupidly cold outside and as much as Steve hates it, he loves it. They’d never had the opportunity to see the parade growing up, even though it was much less of a spectacle then than it is now. No one in the gathering crowd bothers them- possibly because they don’t recognize them under the layers of sweaters and the literal blankets they have draped around themselves but it’s nice. 

“I can’t believe I let you all talk me into this,” Sam grumbles, pulling his blanket tighter around himself. It’s still dark out but the street lights are bright enough to see the disgruntled expression on his face and the tired lines under his eyes. “I could be at home, _warm_ and _sleeping_ right now.” 

“Oh, please,” Sage huffs, “Like Ma would have let us sleep in. We’d be in the kitchen helping baste the turkey or chopping onions or something equally tedious.” 

The menu had been something of an issue at first. Bucky’s stomach is doing better these days but he’d been worried that there wouldn’t be anything he could eat at the gathering until he’d talked it over with Sam the day after they’d gotten back to the city. When Sam had come over for the afternoon, both to visit and to help them pick through the list of vetted therapists, they’d talked over Bucky’s dietary restrictions and Sam had assured he’d make sure there was something on the menu that he could eat. Steve and Bucky had also spent the evening before preparing a few dishes- hearty Russian foods learned from Bucky’s mother- to bring along to the dinner. They’re waiting to be picked up back at the apartment, kept warm in these things called Crock Pots that are honestly probably one of the greater inventions in the future, at least to Steve. 

He tilts his head back against Bucky’s shoulder, yawning. “Is there anyone else joining us?” 

“Nah, everyone else in the family is sane and staying safely in Harlem.” Sam shifts, grimacing when his joints creak at the movement. “Warm. Surrounded by food. Sleeping.” 

“Boo hoo,” Sage pulls her phone out, the light of the screen illuminating her features. “It’s an _experience_ , Samuel.” 

“It’s _cold_ and we’re sitting on _concrete_ , Sage.” 

“Oh my god,” Bucky stretches his leg out and kicks Sam in the thigh- more of a bump than a kick, definitely not hard enough to hurt, “you know, for the longest time I thought it was me being jealous that was the reason we didn’t get along. But you just like to argue for the sake of arguing, don’t you? Wait, when is your birthday?” 

“May 1st.” 

“You’re a _Taurus_ , that makes so much sense.” Bucky pokes Sam with his boot again and withdraws his foot, tucking it under his blanket. “Everything makes so much more sense now, it’s been on you all along.” 

“I can’t believe you buy into astrology,” Sam rolls his eyes. 

“I can’t believe you hate people having fun.” 

“I can’t believe you’re all arguing over this.” In general, it’s not the worst thing they could be arguing about, but it’s a little annoying. Steve pinches the bridge of his nose with his fingers. “I don’t even know when my birthday _is_ now.” 

“That’s okay,” Bucky soothes, cupping a hand over Steve’s ear to lean in and whisper, “birthday sex three times a year.” 

A very valid point. Steve smirks at him. “You don’t have to convince me.” 

They huddle together as the sun starts to rise, as the crowd grows and each side of the street is lined with people. Someone shows up with a stack of boxes from a bakery and starts passing out warm, gooey cinnamon rolls, which Steve and Sam both tuck into heartily but Bucky and Sage decline with a shared grimace. Bucky _does_ kiss Steve deeply after he’s finished eating though, licking the sticky cinnamon taste off his lips. 

“Can’t eat it, but why should I deprive myself of tasting it?” He laughs as he pulls away. “’S good.” 

“Gross,” Sage says, but she’s grinning at them. 

Bucky sticks his tongue out at her and wraps his arms around Steve’s waist. The crowd is easily twenty people deep by now but since they’d arrived so early, they have a spot at the barricade that’ll have a good view. What they don’t have is bathroom access which… kind of sucks a _lot_ considering the amount of coffee they’ve been drinking. Oh well. It’s only for another hour or so. 

Their viewing spot is right at the beginning of the parade route so at just after nine, the floats start rolling down the street. Steve really doesn’t know who most of the balloon characters are but he’s in awe of the art of them anyway. He bends over his phone as a marching band goes past, reading an article on how the balloons are blown up and painted like sculptures. “This is so cool,” he shows the screen to Bucky. “I wanna paint one.” 

“What character would you make?” 

“Um….” Steve looks up and nearly chokes as the next group of balloons comes into view. They’re _Avengers_ themed and of course, Captain America is leading. “Not that.” 

“You can repaint it to be me instead.” Sam pats him on the shoulder. “We’re in a new era. SWORD is doing a press release next week to announce your retirement and me assuming the Cap mantle. Time for new parade balloons!” 

“I can do that.” If he had his sketchbook with him, he’d draw out a little comic of a Sam balloon in the Cap suit with the Falcon wings. But he can grab it when they go back to the apartment to get the food before heading over to Sam’s place. 

“Steve, turn around,” Bucky pulls at his shoulder, holding his phone up. “I wanna get a picture of you with the balloon.” 

He groans, “C’mon, Buck, really?” 

“Yeah, really. I’m making an Instagram.” 

“I don’t know what Instagram is!” He dutifully turns his back to the parade though, shrugging his shoulders and tilting his head up as the shadow of the balloon passes. “Are you done?” 

“Not quite,” Bucky glances up at him, “I love you.” Steve breaks out in a stupid grin like he always does every time Bucky tells him that and the shutter on the camera goes off. “ _There_ we go. Now I’m done.” 

***

Sam’s house is… chaos. 

He’d explained on the drive over to Harlem that nearly all of his extended family on his mother’s side was visiting and the house was going to be jam packed but somehow that hadn’t prepared Steve for just how _much_ family that meant. Sam’s mother has six siblings, all of which with children and grandchildren of their own. 

Bucky lights up like the goddamn sun as soon as they step inside the house and three small children go running past the bottom of the stairs, shrieking. There’s a group of older women flocking around the kitchen doorway. The sounds of some sort of sports game from the living room is accompanied by shouting men. A frazzled looking teenage girl is pacing with a crying baby, looking up in relief as they close the door behind them. She shoves the baby at Sage, who immediately turns and deposits the child in Steve’s arms so she can disappear upstairs with the other girl. 

“Um.” Steve stares down at the little boy, his tear streaked cheeks and full, trembling lips. He can’t be more than about eight months, old enough to hold himself up and have control over his body but definitely not past his first birthday yet. He’d held enough babies during his USO tour days to know that much, but not enough to know how to calm them down. He pats the baby’s back awkwardly, turning to Bucky and Sam. “What do I-”

“Do not hand him to me.” Sam backs away. “That’s Josiah, he cries. A lot. I’m gonna take this food to the kitchen.” He grabs the Crock Pot that Bucky is holding in addition to the one he already has propped against his hip, under his arm. “You know your way around, make yourselves at home. If anyone gets annoying, feel free to tell them to leave you alone. There are a few cousins with crushes, just warning you now.” 

“Bucky, take this baby.” Steve shifts his hold on the squirming infant, ready to pass him to Bucky but stops when he takes in the expression the other man is wearing. “What?” 

“Just….” His eyes are soft, tracing over Steve and the baby in his arms, something wistful in the curve of his smile. “Just let me look at you for a minute. Here,” he steps forward, guiding Steve’s hands to a better hold so that he doesn’t feel like he’s about to drop the kid if it moves wrong. He has one forearm braced under Josiah’s bottom now, the other free to pat the sobbing baby’s back, except Bucky is still rubbing his hand gently up and down Josiah’s spine. “Like that.” 

It’s not hard to see what this moment has caused; Steve’s known Bucky long enough to know exactly what that look of soft, aching want written all over his face means. And it’s not a shock either, not at all. Bucky’s been searching for things to take care of for his entire life. But neither of them are even remotely in a place where they could even entertain the idea of a child, let alone have one. “Buck,” he warns, voice low. “No. We are entirely too fucked up on our own.” 

“I know,” Bucky clenches his eyes shut, biting his lip. “I _know_. I’m not… of course I don’t think we should. It’s just... I don’t know. Can’t I just look and-”

“Daydream?” Steve teases, nudging his foot against Bucky’s calf. The baby is starting to calm down, lulled by the soothing motion of Bucky’s hand. Steve is kinda rocking them side to side and Bucky is matching the motion to keep his hand on Josiah’s back. It hits him like a fucking punch, when Steve looks up at Bucky; Bucky, who is staring at the baby with goddamn stars in his eyes. 

He wants this, too. 

Not right away, not anywhere near right away. But he thinks having a family… that could be something good for them. Eventually. When they’ve had time to get better. “You have a cat,” he says, weakly. 

Bucky’s gaze flicks up to him, a slow smile curving his lips. “Okay, Stevie.” He doesn’t say _I see right through you_ , but he doesn’t have to. Steve knows he does. 

“Shut up. Have your moment of domesticity.” 

“Domesticity.” Pink blooms across Bucky’s nose. “Yeah, okay.” 

“It’s true and you know it.” The need to care for something or someone runs as deep in Bucky as the goddamn ocean. It’s one of Steve’s favorite things about him, always has been. Even when he resented being the one that _needed_ to be cared for. For a while after the serum, during the war, he thought he didn’t need that anymore. He does. He needs it like he needs breathing. And Bucky’s happy to give it to him. He’ll never resent it again. “C’mon, we should probably go introduce ourselves or something. Maybe find out who this baby belongs to before someone decides he’s been kidnapped or something.” 

“Yeah, you’re probably right.” Bucky sucks in a breath and drops his hand from Josiah’s back, slipping it around Steve’s waist to settle against the small of his back instead. “Kitchen first?” 

Steve nods. He’s not really interested in the sports game going on in the den- judging by the shouting, the Wilson family’s preferred team is losing. It’s probably football, too, which he has never enjoyed, unless he was watching Bucky playing a game in the street or the schoolyard with some of the neighborhood boys. They head toward the kitchen, drawn by the smell of the food cooking. The women that had been gathered in the doorway when they’d come into the house have dispersed, but the room is about at full capacity. There’s people gathered around the stove, people sitting at the table peeling and chopping varieties of fruits and vegetables, people leaning against the counters with wine glasses. 

Steve spots Sam in one of the corners, _blatantly_ eating the pelmeni that Steve and Bucky had spent all of yesterday afternoon making. The nerve of him. “Wilson,” Steve scowls, and immediately regrets it when roughly fourteen people turn their attention on him and Bucky. Right. They’re all Wilsons. “ _Sam_ ,” he elaborates, ignoring the way Bucky is snickering, “those are for _dinner_.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Sam says, mouth full. “Hey, since when can y’all _cook_ , anyway? I’m gonna need at least thirty more of these little dumpling things.” 

“Those are called pelmeni and it’s my mother’s recipe.” Bucky finally takes pity on Steve, lifting Josiah from his arms when the baby leans toward him, nearly falling from Steve’s hold. He settles him on his right hip, marching across the kitchen to drag Sam away from their Crock Pot with a hand fisted in his collar. “Like Steve said, they’re for dinner.” 

“I’m just sampling,” he leans back, reaching for the lid of the pot again. 

“Samuel Wilson! Get out of the kitchen if you can’t stay out of the food.” Sam’s mother swats his hand away, turning to Bucky with a beaming smile and drawing him into a hug. Steve leans against the counter, accepting a wine glass from an older man as he watches Bucky melt into her embrace. “Hi, Honey. How was your trip?” 

“Enlightening,” Bucky grins, looking over at Steve. “C’mere.” 

Steve winds his way through the people to the other side of the kitchen, sipping at his wine. It’s not like it’s going to affect him but the flavor is full and nice. “Hi,” he slips his hand into Bucky’s back pocket as he leans against his side. “Nice to see you again, Mrs. Wilson. Thank you for having us.” 

“Of course,” she smiles, patting his cheek. “You’re always welcome. We don’t let family be alone on the holidays. What are you doing for Christmas?” 

“Probably honeymooning.” Sam pipes up. He’s acquired his own glass of wine from somewhere, grimacing as he sips it. “I hate wine. Have you two set a definite date yet?” 

They’d talked about it some over the past week. Christmas is only a little over four weeks a way which doesn’t give them much time at all to plan a wedding. They’ve got to book the venue, get a license and find someone to officiate. Really, that’s all they absolutely _have_ to have but Bucky wants to get suits made and hire a photographer for the event so…. “Tentatively the 22nd,” Steve says, pushing his hair away from his face. He needs to get it cut before the wedding too. “We just got back to the city though, I don’t think we’re doing a _honeymoon_ , per se.” And he’s kind of tied to New York right now for therapy. 

“Probably not,” Bucky murmurs, glancing over at him. “Unless we have to go back out to California to sign stuff for the house, but that would probably be before the wedding. The realtor’s supposed to call me on Monday to get the process started.” He wiggles his metal fingers at Josiah, grinning when the baby reaches out to grab at them. “’Fraid you’re stuck with us in the city for the winter, Sammy.” 

“I could be persuaded to accept it if y’all make more little dumplings for me.” 

“No, fuck you, make your own. This was our city first.” 

“ _Brooklyn_ was your city. This is Manhattan, it’s mine.” 

They sneer at each other and then break into grins at the same time. Bucky had mentioned before that he and Sam had bickered with each other nearly nonstop when they had first started getting to know each other. It seems they still do, just as friends rather than two people who are barely tolerating each other’s presence. It would be nice to understand what dynamic Steve is supposed to have with Sam- he’d like to be the man’s friend (again?), but he’s somewhat adrift, not sure if he’ll even be accepted. It’s not like with Bucky, with an entire shared past still between them. This timeline’s Steve was an entirely different person than Steve is now when he and Sam met. And he doesn’t even want to be that person that Sam knew. The shell of who he really is. 

“You boys should go relax,” Sam’s mother scoops Josiah from Bucky’s hold, “watch some football if you want. Take Sam with you too, for the love of God, or else he’s gonna fill up before dinner is even served.” 

“Hey!” 

“If you need a hand in here, I don’t mind helping.” Steve offers. He actually does like cooking, even though it’s a little- okay, a _lot_ \- overwhelming now with the abundance of food and kitchen appliances. But he wants to learn. 

“Oh, thank you, but we’ve got it covered, Sweetie. Most of the prep is done and we’ve got more hands than we have cooking space. You’ve already done more than your part with the dishes you’ve brought.” She smiles at them. “Now get, the three of you.” 

They retreat from the kitchen, by unspoken agreement skirting around the doorway to the den and climbing the stairs to sit at the top- Sam on one side, Steve on the other, and Bucky in the middle. Bucky’s got a pink canvas bag over his shoulder that Steve had stashed his sketchbook and pencils in when they were leaving their apartment so he takes those out and flips the book open to a new page. He’s seen a couple of photos of Sam’s wing suit so he has a vague idea of what it looks like as he puts lead to paper, tracing light lines, laying the foundation of a comic. He tunes out Sam and Bucky’s chatting, focusing his attention on the sketch forming. 

He’s always regretted that he’d had to drop out of art classes, had turned away from his real dream in order to make ends meet, in order to fight his way into the Army somehow because dammit, Bucky wasn’t going off to the front if Steve wasn’t following him there. There are probably classes he could sign up for now, but would it even be fair? They’d pass him even if he turned out to be terrible at everything, just by virtue of his name, of his legacy. It’s not like he needs to make art to support himself now either. He sighs and erases a wobbly line. 

“Hey, that’s pretty good!” 

His head snaps up as a shadow falls across his paper, Sage and her friend, the one who had been holding Josiah, standing behind him. “Uh… thanks.” What he really wants is to hug the sketchpad to his chest, away from view. He’s not really used to anyone other than Bucky seeing his art. It’s not even a deeply personal drawing- just a cartoon Sam flying down 6th Avenue, holding the strings to a new Captain America balloon. He drags the end of his pencil across his bottom lip a few times, squinting at the drawing. “It needs something; I don’t know.” 

“A speech bubble,” Sage’s friend offers, “Make him say something like… I’m about to yeet this fucking shield.” 

“When I see a het, I _floor it_!”

“Wait, that’s _my_ line though.” Bucky scowls up at Sage. She rolls her eyes at him and grabs her friend’s hand, the two of them heading downstairs. 

“I have no clue what any of that meant,” Steve says and adds a little speech bubble above cartoon Sam’s head that reads _To infinity… and beyond!_. The wing suit is close enough to Buzz Lightyear’s. It works. He tucks the pencil behind his ear and carefully tears the page from the sketchbook so he can pass it over to Sam. “For you.” 

Sam breaks into a grin as he looks down at the drawing. “Thanks, man!” He folds it carefully, tucking it into his pocket. “I’m gonna keep it forever; a real Steve Rogers original and he gives it to me!” 

“Ah, it’s nothing.” Steve shrugs, flipping his sketchpad shut. “It’s not like I’m Van Gogh or anything great like that.” 

“You don’t need to be Van Gogh, because you’re Steve Rogers and you’re pretty incredible all on your own.” There’s a force behind Bucky’s words that surprises Steve, a steady assurance that calms something inside him that he didn’t even know needed soothing. “I’m no art critic but I know enough to say that you shouldn’t start comparing yourself to the ones who came before you. There is no ‘great’ in art because no matter what it looks like, art is _art_ and everyone has their own style, their own brand of great.” 

“Okay, Barnes. Didn’t know you were a poet.” Sam elbows Bucky gently, nudging him into leaning against Steve’s side. 

Now Steve’s not one to pass up an opportunity, so he lifts his right hand, strokes his fingers through Bucky’s loose curls, lets the weight of his hand guide Bucky into resting his head against Steve’s shoulder. “Thanks, Buck,” he says quietly, tipping his chin to speak the words right into his ear. “It means a lot, you know?” 

Bucky squeezes his knee gently. “Just the truth.” 

***

He makes it through the rest of the week just fine but wakes in the early hours of Sunday morning with tears on his cheeks and his muscles twitching involuntarily from a half remembered nightmare. He sits up, blinking hard and looking over at Bucky, sprawled on his stomach, his hair a mess around his head. There’s nothing Steve wants more than to lean over and gently kiss his parted lips, to smooth that tangled hair back from his face. But he blinks and doesn’t see Bucky sleeping, he sees him dead on the floor of his apartment. He sees him lying against snow in the alps. Sees it like a movie behind his eyelids, like he’s being forced to watch it all on a loop by all the demons haunting his past. 

Mouth dry, he pulls his knees to his chest, pressing his forehead against them and counting. Trying to match his uneven, shuddery breath to the rhythm of the numbers in his head. _Don’t wake Bucky. Don’t wake Bucky._ He’s supposed to be getting better, this isn’t what he wants to show as a result of his therapy. He needs to be better. 

He needs to feel something other than the hollowness in his bones, in his _soul_ , like the dreams that plague him, the dreams he doesn’t even always remember during his waking hours, aren’t sucking every bit of his energy. But they do. And he can’t even imagine being able to summon enough life to his fucking superpowered body to even make it out of bed today. He’s _heavy_. Invisible hands, each weighing a ton, pressing down against his shoulders. He slumps back down, flopping against the mattress harder than he means to. 

Bucky stirs, humming lowly under his breath as his hand comes up to shove his hair off his face. “Steve?” Blue eyes blink open, heavy with sleep. 

“Sorry,” Steve whispers, hoarse. It hurts to breathe. His chest is too heavy. “Go back to sleep. I’m not goin’ anywhere.” Even if he wanted to, he can’t. Not today. 

Bucky looks at him for a long time in the half-dark, the sleep disorientation fading from his features, traded in for caution, for sorrow. Steve _hates_ that look. “Wanna talk about it?” Bucky offers, finally. 

“No.” He squeezes his eyes shut, bites down on his tongue. The word had come out harsher than he meant it to. “I’m okay, Buck. Really. Just… tired today. A little in my head. I’m _okay_.”

“Okay, Stevie.” Soft fingers brush over his jawline. “Do you want me to get you anything?” 

Steve blinks his eyes open. “My sketchbook?” 

“I got you.” 

He spends the morning in bed, not asleep but locked in a hazy blur of _thoughts_ that are disjointed and seep into his bones and make him the kind of unsettled that has him drawing dark, intimidating creatures. Things he’s seen before like the Red Skull, like the Chitauri, like the Thing that killed Bucky in 2012, all drawn in an angle that makes it seem like they’re towering above him, large and imposing, the way they take up more space in his mind than they should. 

He draws himself, how he felt, a useless silhouette in the hallway as Bucky’s body had fallen to the floor. Draws the cockpit of the Valkyrie, disjointed around him through the haze of the icy water. _Hates_ his picture perfect memory. 

Bucky hovers in the bedroom the entire time, working quietly on his laptop. He doesn’t ask to see what Steve’s drawing and Steve doesn’t offer, hugging the sketchbook against his chest any time Bucky even looks over. God, what would Bucky think if he saw the drawings? They both know he’s fucked up but this is on a whole new level. 

It’s something of a relief to have the images laid bare on paper, as hideous as they are. It eases him through the fog clouding him to finally close the book and blink as he looks out the window. It’s snowing, white flakes falling heavy from the sky. The last time he saw snow falling like this, they were in the alps. He sucks in a shuddery breath and looks over to where Bucky is curled up in the armchair in the corner of the bedroom, laptop on his knees, his hair thrown up into a messy bun and held in place with a pencil. Bucky has another pencil between his lips, chewing on the metal piece of the eraser as he hums to someone on the phone. He pulls the pencil from his mouth to write something down on his notepad. 

“Right, right,” Bucky rolls his eyes. “And it has to be tomorrow for sure? Alright, well, let me check my schedule and I’ll let you know if we can make it. Great, thanks. Bye.” He sets the phone on the arm of the chair and glances up at Steve. A soft smile spreads across his face when their eyes meet. “Hey, Sweetheart. Feeling better?” 

“I think so.” He doesn’t feel like he’s made of lead anymore, and he’s _hungry_ so that’s a good sign, but he still doesn’t particularly want to talk about it. “Who was that on the phone?” 

Bucky scoffs, shutting the computer with a sharp click and dropping it on the chair as he stands. “The guys who are gonna inspect the house before we sign any paperwork on it,” he crosses the room, climbs onto the bed to sit cross legged facing Steve. “They _strongly_ suggested that we fly there for the inspection tomorrow so that they can explain things about the house as they go through it rather than in pictures on a report. But….”

“But I have therapy tomorrow,” Steve frowns. “I can just skip my appointment, it’ll be fine.” 

“Stevie, I don’t think that’s a good idea.” Bucky sighs, reaching for his hand. “Today has already been… not good. I think it might be better if you stayed and met with Amelia. I can fly out tomorrow morning and be back on Tuesday. If he’s not busy, Sam would probably be willing to come and stay over with you tomorrow night-”

“I don’t need to be _babysat_.” He really doesn’t mean to bristle; he’s been trying so hard not to be that person that’s looking for fights. But fuck, it’s _one night_ , he’s not going to get separation anxiety over it. 

“You threw yourself off a cliff not even a full month ago, Steve.” 

Steve winces at the blunt force of the words, loud in the otherwise quiet of the room. “Sorry,” he whispers. It’s easier to forget he’s still on suicide watch now that enough time has passed that Bucky doesn’t watch him like a hawk every damn second. He’s stopped following Steve to the bathroom- well, most of the time. If either one of them heads for the shower though, the other inevitably follows. But still…. “I’m sorry.” 

“You don’t have to apologize,” Bucky’s hand trembles around his, just a little, just enough to feel. “I just don’t want you to be alone if you start to feel like that again. I can just tell them I can’t go to it.” 

“No.” The last thing he wants is to become a burden again, like he was when he was small. “This is important. You should go.” 

Bucky hesitates, then nods. “Okay.” 

It turns out that Sam has to leave for DC on Wednesday but he’s willing to stay over, arriving at their apartment just as Bucky is putting on his shoes to head out the door. Steve’s moodily frowning into a mug of coffee. He _wants_ to be going with Bucky, wants to be part of every step of this journey to buying their new forever home. But he’s stuck here, in this apartment, because of fucking _therapy_.

“It is _goddamn_ cold out there,” Sam grumbles as he unwinds his scarf, draping it over a hook along with his coat. 

“There’s coffee in the pot in the kitchen.” Bucky claps Sam on the shoulder and steps around him to stand in front of Steve. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Sweetheart.” 

“Fly safe,” he blinks up at Bucky, his gaze tracing over his features. Memorizing them. It’s only a day. Just a night. 

He hasn’t had to say goodbye to him like this since the morning he sent him off to war and their lives changed forever. It’s not the same, nowhere close. And yet….

It’s the same cold lump in his chest, the shudder on his inhale, the minute tremble of his fingers on the handle of his coffee cup as he sets it aside to pull Bucky into a tight hug. He doesn’t have to stand on tiptoes anymore to press his face against the curve of Bucky’s neck anymore and now he’s _allowed_ to press a gentle kiss against the pulse point the way he had wanted to in 1943. “Come home,” he whispers, same as he had on the foggy ship dock, but this time he adds, “Come home to me.” 

“Always.” Bucky kisses him soft, like butterfly wings brushing across his lips, lingering just long enough for Steve’s eyelids to flutter shut. “I love you.” 

“I love you,” he squeezes his arms around Bucky gently, once, then lets him go. Smiles as he picks up his duffle bag and turns and walks out the door, the lock clicking quietly as it settles in place. He swallows hard and picks up his mug, heading to the kitchen where Sam is poking through the fridge. “Hey.” 

“Do you have creamer?” Sam says in lieu of greeting. 

“No, we drink it plain the way it’s supposed to be,” Steve tells him, deadpan. Time to see how well Sam Wilson really knows him. Because while Steve will drink his coffee black, he _prefers_ to have it so sweet it tastes like candy. 

Sam stands up, looking at Steve with his brows wrinkled in blatant disbelief. “Yeah _right_. I know your Starbucks order. Where’s the creamer?” 

He pulls the fridge door open wider to grab the bottle of cashew milk creamer from the shelf, holding it out to Sam. “I don’t know my Starbucks order.” He’s tried a few different drinks since coming out of the ice but none of them speak to him enough for him to consistently order the same thing each time. 

“Caramel cloud macchiato- hot, eight shots of espresso, twelve extra pumps of caramel sauce, almond milk.” Sam rattles off, taking the creamer from him and pouring some into the coffee cup he’s got sitting on the countertop. “I was gonna go get takeout for tonight during your appointment anyway so you have privacy. I’ll stop by Starbucks and bring one back for you.” 

“I’ve had an iced macchiato….” He’d tried it a couple weeks out of the ice, on a warm day wandering around the city in a blur. “I didn’t like it. It was bitter and-”

“Yeah, ‘cause it’s not your order. Did you miss the part where I said twelve extra pumps of caramel?” Sam puts the creamer back on the fridge shelf and Steve swings the door shut, leaning his shoulder against it as Sam stirs his coffee and sips it. He chokes as he goes to swallow, his eyes fixed on a point behind Steve. “What the fuck is _that_?”

Steve turns, grimacing as Gucci slinks toward her food bowl, glaring and growling at the two of them. “That’s Bucky’s cat. Her name is Gucci.” 

“But you hate cats.” 

“Yeah, well,” he sighs, shrugging as he turns back to Sam. “Bucky loves them and I love Bucky. He could have stood to find one that looks a little less like… that. But.” 

Sam still looks mildly horrified but his features soften at Steve’s words. “It’s good. That you care about him like that. He needs you.” 

“We need each other.” 

“So.” 

“So.” Steve echoes, picking at invisible fuzz balls on his sweatpants. 

“I wanted to tell you that you’re not… obligated to be friends with me, just because our Steve was before.” There’s a quiet, resigned kind of sadness to Sam’s voice as he stares down at his drink, not looking anywhere near where Steve is standing. “It’s different with Bucky, because you knew him from before, even though you had to get to know him again as he is now. But me… I’m just a stranger. And I’ve accepted that. So while I’d like to get to know this version of you and- not get back the friendship I lost because while you’re the same person, you’re different. It could never be the same and I wouldn’t expect it to be. I’d like to be friends with you as you are now. And if I’m ever overly familiar, all you have to do is say so, and I’ll back off. It’s harder for me to always remember there’s a line there now that I shouldn’t cross because… well, to me a few months ago we were living out of tents and shitty motel rooms together. Steve and Nat… they were my closest friends.” 

And he lost them both. 

He doesn’t have to say the words for Steve to hear them hanging in the air between them. He rubs the back of his neck with a sigh. “I’m sorry. For what he did to you. I’ve been focused on trying to repair Bucky’s trust in me but you got fucked over too and I’m sorry. I wish I could fix that too, but I can’t. I _do_ want to be friends though. I’ve just never been very good at making them.” 

Sam snorts, glancing up at him with a grin. “Well, maybe not, but you sure know how to make a hell of a first impression.” When Steve raises his eyebrows in question, he continues, “The first time I met Steve was when we were both jogging a _long_ route in DC. He lapped me three times, mocked me by saying _on your left_ every time he passed me.” 

He ducks his head, snickering childishly because honestly, that is _exactly_ something that he would do. It’s a little heartening to know. That Sam met him in this timeline when there was still something of his personality left. Maybe they’ll still be able to be good friends. Although nowhere near as close as Sam was with his original Steve, since they won’t be working together and Steve and Bucky will be moving to California soon enough. “Maybe he was tryin’ to impress you?” After all, Sam isn’t exactly hard on the eyes. “I mean, I’m dedicated to Bucky but if he was living under the assumption that Bucky was dead and he was trying to move on….” He lets the sentence trail off, lets Sam draw from that what he will. 

Sam chokes on his coffee. 

“Oh, jeez.” Steve steps closer, pats his back. “You alright there?” 

“You’re telling me,” Sam gasps, hand on his chest, wheezing, “You’re telling _me_ that he was fuckin’ _flirting_? Fuck all the way off, there’s no way.” 

Granted, Steve had never flirted with a guy in a situation like that; he’d learned to seduce them in the back alleys of Brooklyn and with Bucky it’s easy, playful, so close to the dynamic they’d already had that it barely feels like a change at all. He’d bumbled his way through his interactions with Peggy and every other woman he’d gone on dates with back in the 40s. But… _if_ he were trying to catch the eye of a stranger, a man, just someone he found attractive without trying to get in their pants for money… he could see himself showing off what the serum has given him, trying to impress. “I mean I wasn’t there, but from the way you describe it…. I would say it’s likely.” 

“Holy shit.” Sam leans back against the counter, his face thoughtful. “Huh. So you’re saying I’m good looking?” 

“I mean,” Steve waves his hand. “I’m not _blind_.” _Anymore_.

Sam smirks at him, teasing. “Better looking than _Malachi_?”

“Who the fuck is Malachi?” 

“Uh…. you know what, why don’t you ask Bucky?” 

***

Sam leaves the apartment as Amelia arrives, promising to be back in an hour with Starbucks and a variety of takeout food. They head into the living room and get settled in their usual seats. 

“How are you today, Steve?” Amelia asks as she pulls out her papers and her tea bags. He’d made sure to have a pot of hot water ready before she arrived, on the chance that they’d be drinking tea again. 

“I’m okay.” As long as she doesn’t ask about his weekend, he’ll be good. 

“And how was your week?” 

Fuck. 

“It was… a week,” He digs his sock covered toes into the thick, plush grey carpet. “I had a nightmare the night before last, I guess.” 

“You guess?” 

“I don’t remember what it was about. I just felt…” He doesn’t know the fucking word to describe how it felt. Doesn’t know how he can possibly make her understand when he doesn’t even understand. “I don’t know how to explain it.” 

“I brought something with me today that might help you.” She pulls a sheet of paper from her folder and hands it to him. It’s got a circle on it, labeled The Feelings Wheel. At the very center are the words surprised, bad, fearful, angry, disgusted, sad, and happy. As the circle gets wider it expands into more expressive words for each category. “You struggle with defining your emotions in terms adequate to the depth of what you’re feeling. The Feelings Wheel isn’t going to necessarily always give you the words you need but I think that it can help guide you in the right direction.” 

He stares blankly at the paper, taking it in. They’re just words, just letters put together, just sounds to be pronounced. And yet it unlocks something in his chest, looking at them. “I felt isolated. Powerless. Empty. I don’t remember the dream but I remember how it felt. I… I made the isolation worse after I woke up because I pushed Bucky away. I didn’t want him to have to see me like that. Caught up in it. I told him I wanted to just stay in bed and draw. I guess I felt ashamed.” 

“Did he believe you?” 

“He knew I was having a bad morning. He stayed close but he kept himself busy with working on paperwork for the house we’re buying.” 

“Do you always push away others when you have a bad day?” 

“No, of course not.” In fact, he pretty much goddamn relied on physical contact for comfort most of the time. When he hadn’t had Bucky there to stay close to, he’d all but attached to Natasha like a leech and she had let him. “Just yesterday. I didn’t want him to see what I drew. I didn’t trust myself not to end up with something fucked up. And I was right.” He drops The Feelings Wheel on the cushion beside him. “The drawings, they’re…bad.” 

“Why do you say that?” 

Fuck, he cringes just thinking about them. “I drew bad things. H-happening. The worst things.” 

“It’s not uncommon to draw your trauma, Steve. It’s actually a big step in healing for a lot of people.” Amelia leans forward, clasping her hands on top of her crossed knees. “You’re more than welcome to say no, but if you’re willing, I’d like to see them.” 

“I… I don’t know,” he digs his fingernails into his palms. That’s like laying the deepest layers of his soul bare for judgement from someone who’s barely more than a stranger, who’s here because she’s being paid. “They’re bad.” 

“Is there another word that could fit better here than just saying they’re bad?” 

He glares at The Feelings Wheel. “Revolting. Disrespectful. _Victimized_.” Like he’s the one who got the worst end of the deal on any of it. Fuck, Bucky is _dead_ in 2012 and Steve is here, being dramatic because he had to watch it happen. When he’s engaged to Bucky here. The plane crash? He did it on purpose, how dare he act otherwise? He shrugs, “Like I said. Bad.” 

“That’s your perspective, but I doubt that it’s actually true-”

“You don’t know anything about it!” Steve snaps, jumping to his feet. Fuck it, let her see them. Then she’ll have to realize how pathetic it all actually is. He stomps toward the bedroom, takes his sketchbook from the desk drawer with shaky hands, flipping it open to the first of the drawings from yesterday as he walks back into the living room. He all but throws the book down on the coffee table. The first is a perfect rendition of what he had seen when he’d looked up and watched the aliens coming down out of the wormhole, the city in chaos around him. He silently turns the pages, letting her see. 

Bucky’s body in the hall, Steve cowering in the corner. 

The Valkyrie. 

The Villains, standing over him. 

The Train. 

The Grand Fucking Canyon, and Bucky’s horrified, tear streaked face. 

“Tell me it’s not fucked up, you can’t.” He whispers, staring down at the charcoal smudged paper. “I’m not the victim in any of these and yet….”

“Just because someone else felt pain too doesn’t make your pain any less real,” Amelia touches the back of his hand lightly. “It’s okay to feel the pain you’ve been through. The only way to ever make peace with it _is_ to let go of it and just _feel_. It’s _okay_.”

“If I do that… what if it never stops?” He doesn’t want to feel the bad things, doesn’t want to let go of the tenuous but iron grip of control he has on them. If he does, they might consume him whole and never let him free. Exactly like what had happened to this timeline’s Steve. 

“If you _don’t_ , you’re never going to stop having to fight with it.” 

“I don’t want to talk about this anymore.” He grabs the sketchbook and slams it shut, shoving it down in the groove between the cushions. It’s a pointless conversation, one he’s not in any state of mind to be having. He doesn’t want to get into anything deep, not when Sam is gonna be here babysitting him. God forbid he end up spiraling and turn what should be a friendly evening into the other man having to hover and make sure he isn’t going to hurt himself or anything. 

Amelia smiles at him, a little sadly, “That’s alright. We have about thirty minutes left in our session. Is there anything in particular you’d like to discuss?” 

What he really wants is to show her to the door and tell her not to come back. But, fuck, he can’t. He has to put in the work. “I don’t care.” He idly picks at a chipped nail on his right hand. “Whatever you want.” That’s definitely not the right response for him to be working toward getting better, but fuck. He should be in California with Bucky right now, at their house. Not stuck here, in this room, with this woman who wants to know incredibly personal things he doesn’t even want to think about ever again. 

“Okay, then I want to talk about homework,” Amelia pulls a sheaf of papers out of her folder. 

“Homework.” He hasn’t done homework since the fucking thirties. 

“These papers are for monitoring your daily activities and tracking your feelings. I’d like it if you filled them out every day between now and our next session.” She pulls two papers free from the paperclip, handing them over to him along with a pen. “You can fill one set out today during the remainder of our time and we can go over it just before I leave. If you have any questions about how to fill them out- although there’s really no wrong way- I’m here to answer them before I leave you on your own for the rest of them. The only rule is be honest.” 

Steve looks down at the paperwork. The daily activity sheet is pretty straightforward and simple, little time slots for each hour for him to fill in the blanks with what he was doing at each time. He uncaps the pen and scrawls the day’s date at the top corner and starts filling in each hour box. 6am, wake up, shower, make coffee and breakfast. 7am, wake Bucky up, help Bucky pack. 8am, say bye to Bucky, hang out with Sam. 9am, hang out with Sam. 10am, hang out with Sam. 11am, therapy. He doesn’t know what he’s doing for the rest of the day so he leaves the other spaces blank and hands the sheet back to her, looking over the next one. This is more complicated. 

It’s labeled Feelings Monitoring Form in big bold letters at the top, and there are five columns: Situation, Feeling, Intensity (0-10), Thoughts, Action. “What do you want me to write on this?” 

“It’s up to you. This one is really for an example, so pick something recent that sticks out in your mind, a moment of strong emotion, and we’ll walk through it together.” 

He’s quiet, looking down at the Situation column. “Yesterday Bucky found out we needed to be in attendance for the inspection of the house we’re buying- or at least one of us needed to be there. I told him I could skip this appointment and go to California with him and he told me I should stay here. And then he insisted that Sam needed to stay here with me because I’m still not allowed to be alone, I guess.” 

“Good, that’s a good situation to pick for this exercise,” Amelia nods, leaning forward slightly. “So what were you feeling during this interaction? You can use The Feelings Wheel if you need to.” 

He doesn’t; his thoughts are clear enough on it. “I was frustrated. And then _guilty_ because of course he wants me to be here at therapy and not be alone because he watched me throw myself off a fucking cliff and I have no right to resent that. It’s my fault he feels like that.” 

“How would you rate the intensity of each of those feelings, from zero to ten?” 

“I was still kinda numb from the whole nightmare things so I guess about three? I know I would have felt… _more_ , if I could have.” 

They work through the last two columns- thoughts he was having during the situation and the actions he took to bring it to an end. Amelia leaves him with a stack of each homework paper; more Feelings Monitoring Forms than daily activity sheets so that he has plenty to write down every _big emotion situation_ he has, or whatever. She’s packing up just as Sam returns, bearing lunch and coffee. He even has one for Amelia, of course he does. 

Steve waits until the therapist has gone before he slumps down on the couch again, cradling the hot coffee cup in his hands as Sam starts laying out a bunch of takeout containers across the coffee table. “Thank you.” 

“For the coffee? You haven’t even tried it yet.” 

“No. For being here. For helping us, even though you don’t have to.” Steve brings the cup up to his mouth, sipping lightly on the hot liquid. There’s enough caffeine in it that he can taste it, strong on his tongue, but it’s smooth and sweet and he fucking _loves_ it. “This is _good_.”

“Told you I knew your Starbucks order.” Sam smiles over at him, pulling flatware and napkins from the bottom of his takeout bag. “You don’t have to thank me. I’m your friend. This is what friends do. We’re here for each other, no matter what.” 

Steve returns his grin, taking the box of fried rice that he holds out. “What’d you wanna do for the rest of the day?” 

“I’m really just along for the ride. Is there anything you’re wanting to get done?” 

Steve pokes at his food, humming. “Do you know anywhere I can get a good haircut?” 

***

It only takes about ten minutes of Sam asking him questions about his art before Steve admits he’s been thinking about going to art school. It’s something he’s always wanted to do and now for the first time, actually has the opportunity to make it a reality. 

“I think that’s a great idea!” Sam encourages, grabbing the television remote to turn off the news and twisting in his seat to give Steve his full attention. “Do you have any particular schools in mind yet?” 

“God, no,” he rakes his hand through his hair and wrinkles his nose, not used to the feeling of the new cut yet even though it’s been a day. Sam had taken him to a barbershop he knew, and since Steve hadn’t had any photographs or particular idea of what kind of cut he wanted, he’d just specified he didn’t want to be bald and told them to surprise him. What he’d ended up with was the sides and back of his head gradually shaved- _bald fade_ , he’d been informed- and about half of the length left on the top. But instead of leaving that straight and flat against his head like it always wanted to fall, the barber had rolled it in perm rods. He doesn’t have _curls_ , exactly, not ringlets like Bucky does, but there’s wave and volume there where there’s never been before. He’d also been taught how to style it up off his forehead with a fiber cream. He’s not sure how he feels about it. Kind of nervous for Bucky to see it actually. “I don’t even know if there’s any schools near where we’re gonna live. It was just an offhand thought.” 

“Where’s your nearest city?” Sam’s already reaching for his phone. 

“The house is just outside of Monterey.” 

“Oh that’s easy. Cal State.” Sam taps on his screen a few times before holding it out towards Steve, already open to the university’s art program. “You have a while before their next set of classes start anyway. Just get some information, get a feel for it. Think about it. If it’s something you really want to do, then go for it!” 

Steve scrolls through their requirements even though he doesn’t actually know what most of them mean. “Thanks, Sam. I’ll keep it in mind.” He’s barely handed the device back when the sound of keys in the lock pull his attention. He jumps to his feet as Bucky comes through the door, duffle bag hitting the floor. His hair is disheveled and he looks a little drawn, tired, but he’s smiling. Steve lurches across the room, throwing his arms around him, hugging tight. 

“You cut your hair,” Bucky laughs breathlessly, running his fingers across the shorn section at the back, up into the messy waves at the top. “Let me look at you.” He pulls back, not out of the hug, just far enough to take in Steve’s new look. “ _Damn_.”

“Good damn or bad damn?” Steve smiles shyly, tilting his head to the side. 

Bucky kisses him, a nip at his lower lip, just heated enough that Steve wants to pull him back in when he leans away again. “Good… _great_. I love it. Sam, get the fuck out-”

“Dude, keep it in your pants,” Sam complains. “Tell us about California first at least. Everything go alright with the inspection?” 

Bucky rolls his eyes and leans in to kiss Steve again, lightly, before stepping out of the hug so they can walk over to the couch and sit down. “It was California. Warm. Gorgeous. The house is in tip top shape, no major repairs needed. Really, I could have skipped the whole thing and just had them email me a report but I don’t regret going either.” 

“Why’s that?” 

He shifts, fishes his phone out of his pocket. “I found my new car. Gonna go into the dealership here next week and get it.” 

Steve leans over his shoulder as he opens his gallery to a nearly holographic golden pink car, sitting low to the ground. He doesn’t recognize the logo on the front grille but he doesn’t have to know it to know that the thing probably costs enough to make him lightheaded even still. 

“This is going to be my baby,” Bucky enthuses, turning the phone so Sam can see it too. 

“Why am I not surprised at all that you’re gonna be driving a rose gold Maserati around the California coast?” Sam sighs, smiling and shaking his head. “I will say I never imagined a car like that would suit you, but it does.” 

“What did you think would suit me, then?” Bucky rolls his eyes, leaning his head back against Steve’s shoulder. “Combat jeep? That’s not me. It never has been. I never wanted to fight in the first place.” 

It breaks Steve’s heart a little, even though Bucky says the words without inflection now. He’s the one who started dragging him into fights from the very beginning. It’s not like he had a control over the war, over the draft, but he could have sent Bucky home after Azzano. And it’s selfish, horrible, but he’s glad that he didn’t. If he had, they wouldn’t be here. They would have never had this chance. 

But then again, he never would have crashed the plane either. 

This isn’t something he needs to be contemplating at all. It’s useless. This is the life they have and it’s the only one they’re getting. He swallows and clears his throat. “If the car is gonna be your baby does that mean we can get rid of the cat now?” Steve quips, smirking as Bucky flicks his knee lightly. 

“No. And speaking of, where _is_ my baby?” 

“Probably astral projecting to some poor person’s bedroom to be their sleep paralysis demon,” Sam mutters. “Do you know your cat stood just outside the shower this morning and _wailed_ at me for thirty fucking minutes?” 

“Why were you in the shower for thirty minutes in the first place?” 

“Fuck you, I have a skincare routine. I have to _exfoliate_. Obviously.” 

“I have approximately ninety seven percent more hair than you do but I don’t take a thirty minute shower.” Bucky shoots back immediately, not even pausing. “Obviously.” 

“Come on, guys,” Steve groans. “Can you even be in the same room once without doing this?” 

“ _No,_ ” they reply. In unison. 

Well. It was worth a shot. 

***

Wedding planning is a lot more complicated than Steve ever thought it could be. Not that he’d been doing that much thinking about it- at first it was because he knew no one would ever want to marry the guy that was likely to die on them before they even reached their fifth anniversary, and then because he wasn’t thinking of anything beyond the war. But now they’ve got less than a month to pull the whole thing together. He huffs and opens a new tab on the laptop. They need to find someone to officiate, need to figure out who all they’re inviting, need to get suits. Bucky is meeting with Shuri later in the week to get a ring made that will work with his left hand. 

And they have to book the venue. 

Bucky is arguing with someone on the phone, aggressively petting Gucci as he goes back and forth with them, trying to get them in. Unsurprisingly, it’s not easy to book a highly coveted venue at the last minute during the Christmas season. Who knew? It’s not that Steve is overly attached to the idea of the location, or even the date. It won’t break his heart if they can’t pull it off. But that doesn’t mean he doesn't want it. The moment the idea had occurred to him, he’d fallen in love with it. Christmas was just magical, even during the times when they’d had no money for even a meal, let alone gifts. It was the spirit of it. Bucky hadn’t celebrated it growing up, of course, and even though he isn’t religious anymore, he doesn’t really care one way or the other about it, although he had helped Steve pick out a tree and decorations to put up in the apartment. It’s standing in the corner of the living room, in all of it’s shimmery lit up glory, the tiny white lights glinting off red and gold glass ornaments, glittery ribbons and tinsel, and the star at the top. 

“Steve, go put on warm clothes,” Bucky tosses his phone down on the couch before flopping onto the cushions. “We’re gonna go over to Rockefeller.” 

“Why?” 

“One, I wanna take you ice skating. Two, I think we’ll have better luck convincing them to squeeze us into their booking schedule if we’re there in person instead of arguing over the phone.” 

“We don’t have to resort to using who we are to get in, Bucky,” Steve says quietly, looking over at him. Maybe it’s not exactly wrong but it makes him feel kind of squirmy inside. “We can postpone. Book in advance like everyone else.” 

Bucky frowns, squeezing Steve’s knee gently. “Steve, I told you _whatever you want_. You want a Christmas wedding at Rockefeller, we’re having a Christmas wedding at Rockefeller. I’m not gonna march in there and tell them _let us get married here or I’ll bomb the place_ ; we’re just gonna walk into the office and very respectfully ask if it would be possible to book a wedding for a few days before Christmas. They didn’t even let me get as far as saying our names on the phone, so maybe. We’ll work it out.” He squeezes Steve’s knee again and pulls his hand away. “Go get dressed. We’re going on a _date_.”

They end up walking to Rockefeller rather than take the van or bike or the subway. It’s not _freezing_ , but it’s cold enough to make Steve shiver a little when he steps out the door, in spite of his thick hoodie and sweatpants. He grabs Bucky’s hand and doesn’t let go for even one moment of the thirty minute walk. It’s heartening, to walk through the city and already see the signs of it starting to pick itself up after the last five years. The same streets that he had walked with Nat just two months ago- the ones that had been overgrown with foliage and missing person adverts- are still teeming with people but they look a little less haunted, cheerful even, and there’s still trash everywhere but in the normal way. Even though they’re moving away soon, even though they’re moving on from the city, he’s fucking proud of it. 

New York raised them and gave them the tenacity and the grit and the sheer fucking nerve they needed to get them through all the shit they’ve had thrown at them. Even at the seeming end of the world, New York survives. 

They survive. 

When they get to Rockefeller, they go to the office for the 620 Loft and Garden first. Steve pushes his hood down as they walk up to the receptionist, guaranteeing she’ll see his face. People seem to be hit or miss on recognizing Bucky still but Steve’s face is widely known. 

It turns out not to be necessary, because as soon as the woman looks up and sees them, her eyes go wide and she blurts out, “I follow you on Instagram!” Which. Steve doesn’t have Instagram, barely knows what it is or what Bucky’s doing on it other than posting pictures and videos of him and Gucci mostly. As soon as the words are out of her mouth, she blushes hard. “Sorry. That was unprofessional. What can I help you gentlemen with?” 

Bucky plasters on his most charming smile, the one he used on just about every girl in Brooklyn through their teens and twenties, it had seemed like at the time. He leans one elbow on the counter, casual. “I know it’s short notice and I’m terribly sorry about it, but we’d like to know if it would be possible to book our wedding here for the 22nd of this month. We can be flexible on the date, but my baby wants a Christmas wedding with a view of the tree. I mean, look at that face. Who am I to say no?” 

Steve kicks him in the ankle. And then smiles and nods when the woman looks over at him with wide eyes. “Yes, do you know the very first tree they put up here, back in ‘31 was only decorated with garland, a string of cranberries, and a few tin cans? This was back during the Depression, of course. Most years we were too poor to make it from Brooklyn into the city but I always loved the few times we made it work to come skate and see the tree. I’ve always wanted a Christmas wedding here, ever since I was a kid really. But we don’t want to wait a whole year, so I understand if you can’t squeeze us in on such short notice and I can give up the idea.” Jesus Christ, he’s so full of shit. Bucky’s totally gonna tease him for it later, for that whole spiel about not using their identities to take advantage and then marching in here and pulling out that whole speech about the Depression and childhood dreams. They both know perfectly well he never started dreaming about weddings until he got here and realized he had a shot with Bucky. Even though he’d fancied the idea of marrying Peggy during the years at war, the dream was lukewarm, not what he really wanted and he’d known it. Peggy was the safe, sure option. It made sense, for them to end up together. They’d have had a perfectly palatable life with a couple of perfectly palatable children and a house in the suburbs. He’d have been an army career man. 

He hates everything about that. 

With Bucky, he can be whatever he wants to be. If he decides he really wants to go back to art school, be a full time student, spend the rest of his life painting, Bucky will tell him to go for it. If he never wants to work another day in his life and he never sells a single piece of art, Bucky will still support him. If someone in town randomly grabs him and kisses him, like Lorraine did, Bucky isn’t going to shoot at him in a fit of jealousy to prove a point. Bucky, even being his constant companion for his entire life, is _exciting_ , he can light a fire in Steve without even doing anything. This is where he belongs. 

Old Steve can have that perfectly palatable life. Because Steve gets _this_.

The receptionist is flustered, her fingernails clacking against the keyboard of her computer. “I don’t… we don’t usually take bookings with this short notice. Company policy,” she winces, glancing up at them. “Look, let me go talk to my boss. Wait here, okay?” 

“We’ve got nothing but time,” Bucky assures her, flashing that smile again. He waits until she’s out of sight before turning to Steve, his eyes dancing. “Steve Rogers, you are full of shit.” 

“Yeah, yeah. Laugh it up.” He rolls his eyes, folding his arms across his chest. “It’s working, though.” 

“Hell, if it doesn’t, I’ll be surprised. You’re the one out of the two of us who ended up an actor for a reason. But if we can’t get in, we’ll find someone ordained willing to marry us on the sidewalk outside or something. ‘S long as we get the tree view, right?” Bucky tugs his arms free of their position so that he can thread their fingers together, swaying toward him to kiss him lightly. “Not sure we have enough people to invite to fill up this venue anyway. I don’t really know the people on the Avengers team and they were… _his_ friends. I have friends in Wakanda, but I don’t know if they’ll wanna come to another fucking continent to go to a wedding.” 

“That’s alright,” Steve assures him, squeezing his hands. “If we get the venue then we’ll just have plenty of space for dancing or whatever. We can do all the old dances and the new ones too. What’d you say you can do?” 

“Milly rock?” 

“Yeah, that.” 

“Sure, we’ll milly rock to All I Want For Christmas Is You at our wedding.” 

They get the venue. 

The receptionist had apparently worked some magic on her boss because when she had returned, she’d been beaming and had gotten them to fill out the necessary paperwork. All they had to do was swipe their card. The wedding package came with a photographer and caterer and a bunch of other stuff they didn’t actually need but would be taking full advantage of, since they were paying sky high prices for it anyway. 

They head down to the skating rink sporting matching grins. Steve can’t even be intimidated by the idea of getting on ice with knives strapped to his feet. They’re wearing shitty rental skates with terrible ankle support but it’s okay. They’re getting _married_. It’s not just a proposal and tentative plans now. It’s a solid date. It’s less than a month away. 

He clutches Bucky’s hand in one of his and the railing in the other as they make their way out onto the ice. The sunken garden is protected from the wind, which is nice. He tilts his head back to look up at the tree and nearly falls when his weight shifts on the skate blades. Bucky stabilizes him with a firm arm around his waist. “Careful, Stevie,” he murmurs. 

“I love you,” Steve lets go of his grip on the rail and on Bucky’s hand to turn so they’re facing each other, looping his arms around Bucky’s neck. They’re absolutely blocking the flow of skaters because the place is fucking packed, but he doesn’t give a shit. “You make me _so_ happy, and I’m gonna tell you that every day.” 

“Even though we’re not actually getting married _under_ the tree?” 

The venue is a rooftop garden with a view overlooking the tree and they had been promised the photographer would be able to take photos in front of it, but the actual ceremony won’t be taking place under it like Steve had asked for when he’d first had the idea. “I don’t care about that, Buck. Either way, it’s gonna be amazing. Are _you_ happy with it?” 

“I’m not picky about the _how_ of it. I’m _marrying_ you. I’m happy, Steve. This is everything I ever wanted.” Bucky sways forward, kissing him. “Let’s skate.” 

Steve drops his hands, letting Bucky twine their fingers together again. Ice skating is… very different from roller skating. It takes them about two laps around the rink before Steve finally gets the hang of it, figures out where to keep his weight so he isn’t tripping over the spikes on the front of the blade or having his feet slide out from under him if he rocks too far back on his heels. But once he figures that out, it’s actually… easier than skating on wheels. He likes the sound the blades make as they scrape across the surface of the ice, sending up little snow shavings. Bucky figures it out easy enough too and soon they’re out toward the center of the rink, away from the crowds of people hanging onto the railing. There’s a girl skating around, doing all kinds of spins and jumps and there’s no way that he’s gonna attempt any of it, but Bucky is watching her with bright, intrigued eyes. Tracking the movement of her feet. “You better not do anything and break your bones before our wedding,” Steve chides as Bucky turns and starts skating backwards slowly, copying the girl’s crossover footwork. 

“I’m not gonna break anything,” Bucky rolls his eyes. And promptly missteps, his blades clashing against each other. He lands on his ass with an “ _Oof_ ,” blinking up at Steve. “Don’t laugh.” 

“I would _never_.” Steve smirks, reaching down to help haul him back to his feet. He wraps his hands around Bucky’s hips to turn him so he’s facing away from Steve. “Are you okay?” He croons, lovingly dusting the ice shavings from Bucky’s ass and thighs. 

“...Are you asking me or my ass, Rogers?” 

“Shh, we’re having a moment.” He pats the curve of muscle. And when Bucky huffs loudly, he digs his fingers into it, hard enough to make Bucky hiss under his breath. “Good news, it’s not broken.” 

“I’m sure everyone in this rink is relieved to know that information.” Bucky turns, his cheeks flushed slightly. “Give it ten minutes and I’m sure photographs of your _moment_ will be all over Twitter.” 

Steve shrugs, “Who cares?” 

“You make a solid point.” Bucky grips his chin, kissing him hard and fast. “But if you feel like having any more _moments_ , can it wait until we get home?” 

***

Therapy session three starts off pretty easy; he’d had a good week and he doesn’t have too much to talk about on his homework. He’s feeling good about it until Amelia folds her fingers together and says, “I think we’re ready to move forward into more trauma focused therapy.” 

He sucks in a breath, pressing back against the couch like it’ll get him out of this. If his therapy thus far hasn’t been trauma focused, he’s scared to see what is. It makes him limbs heavy, his stomach twisting. “What do you mean?” He hates the way his voice comes out an octave too high. He’d thought today was gonna be easy, and yet here he is again, shrinking in his seat with his hands trembling and his breathing uneven. “Do I have to… talk about what happened?” 

“Yes, Steve.” 

“How much of it?” 

“We’ll work through each traumatic event together,” Amelia’s tone of voice is probably meant to be reassuring but her words make him want to bolt. “Cognitive Processing Therapy, or CPT, is one of the most widely used treatments for PTSD. PTSD can develop from a wide range of traumatic events, including combat and being witness to violence and death. With CPT we’ll focus on the connections between your thoughts, feelings, and behavior. It can help you identify how traumatic experiences change your thoughts and beliefs and how those can influence your feelings and behavior. These thoughts and beliefs are often harsh and not grounded in reality. They can be things like ‘it’s my fault that bad things are happening’ or ‘I don’t deserve good things, now or in my future’. These are called _stuck points_ and part of CPT is working through them to help you process the emotions behind these beliefs so you can break them down and learn to see them in a different light.” She leans forward, her face serious. “You look like you want to run away already. But let me tell you something.” 

He shrinks even further back in his seat under her gaze. “What is it?” 

“You _have_ to want it. You need to put in the effort. It’s a lot like working out, you only get out of it what you put into it. Therapy is hard, it is. I won’t lie to you, we’re gonna dredge up all sorts of bad feelings. But if you work with me and you put work into yourself, things will start looking up. You’re the one in control of your own recovery. Will you do this with me?” 

He’s gonna be _sick_. This is exactly the same thing that Bucky’s been telling him every time they’ve talked about therapy. But it’s so much more intimidating coming from the soft spoken woman sitting in front of him. He _wants_ to get better though. He does. “I will.” 

She smiles at him and then pulls a paper out of her folder, handing it to him. It’s labeled PCL-5 and it has a series of questions, not unlike the ones he’d answered on the intake paperwork and then went over in their first session. “We’re going to start each week going over this sheet, assessing your symptoms. It will help us track your progress.” 

There’s so much sweat on his palms that the pen is immediately slippery when he takes it. He grimaces but there’s nothing to be done about it. He answers each question and hands the form back to her. “What now?” 

“Now we talk about your new homework for this week. We’re going to start identifying your stuck points- I have a sheet of common ones that I’ll leave with you that can help you get started, but you already pointed one out yourself at our last session without realizing it.” 

“I did?” 

“Yes. Your belief that if you let yourself feel pain, it will never stop. That’s a stuck point. We’ll work on that. You’re also going to write an impact statement; since you’ve been through multiple traumatic events, pick one that stands out to you as the worst- you don’t need to give details on it. What you should write about is why you think the event happened. Also consider the effects they’ve had on your beliefs about yourself, others, and the world in the areas of safety, trust, power or control, esteem, and intimacy. It should be at least one page long but if you have more to say, then you can make it as long as you need it to be. At the next session, you’ll read it aloud and we’ll find stuck points in it together. Okay?” 

He digs his fingernails into his palms hard enough to draw blood. “Okay.” 

Amelia leaves him with a bunch of paperwork that pretty much say the same things she’d told him about CPT and stuck points and impact statements, but it’s a relief that he’ll have them to reference if he needs them. Even with his perfect fucking memory, it’s still more secure to have the words on paper in black and white. He paperclips them all together and leaves them on the coffee table in the living room so he can retreat back into the bedroom, so he can curl up with his head in Bucky’s lap, so he can try to bring himself to the point that he feels like he can do this. 

He doesn’t respond to Bucky’s inquiry about how the session went, just pulls the blanket up to his ears and presses his forehead to Bucky’s clavicle, breathing in shakily. Bucky’s hand rubs over the back of his neck. “Sorry,” he mumbles. 

“It’s alright. Is there anything I can do?” 

“Do you know anything about CPT?” He finally finds the words, leaning back to look at Bucky. There’s stress lines around his sad eyes as he traces his gaze over Steve’s features. “Cognitive Processing Therapy?” 

“ _Oh_ ,” Bucky breathes. “Yeah. She hit you with the stuck points and impact statement today?” 

“How do I just… and then I have to read it _out loud_....”

“It’s fucking hard.” Bucky presses his lips together. “I put off writing my impact statement for _three weeks_. I didn’t think it would do any good. But I swear, Steve, I _swear_. This shit _works_. I was in a bad way when I started CPT, I didn’t even fully believe I was still a person. It helped me find myself again. Even though I still have stuck points, I can function around them now. I wasn’t willing to work for it at first, I considered just ending it all so many times. But finally I decided, fuck it. I’d try putting effort into it and if it didn’t work then I was no worse off than I was at the beginning.” 

“But it worked.” 

“It _worked_.” 

And Bucky for sure had a hell of a lot more trauma than Steve does. Hell, it’s fucking disrespectful of Steve to call what he’s been through trauma at all in comparison to what Bucky went through. But… maybe that’s a stuck point. He breathes out shaky. “Can you help me?” 

“I can’t write it for you, Sweetheart.” 

“I know. I just… I need-” Fuck, he doesn’t even know. He could ask Bucky to proof read it but then Bucky will have to read all the horrible fucking things that Steve’s going to write about how he thinks of himself. Most of it caused by Bucky’s deaths. _Fuck_. “Just… take me out of my head when I need it. I don’t know.” 

“Hey,” Bucky soothes, his right hand coming up to cup Steve’s cheek. “I’m here for you, always. You know that. I love you. You’re gonna write a great impact statement and you’re gonna find your stuck points and you’re gonna get better.” 

“How do you know?” 

“Because you’re Steve Rogers. You don’t back down from any fight, not ever. And recovery is just a new fight.” 

***

Steve breaks five pencils before he even lays lead to paper to write the impact statement. He’s sweating, his palms clammy with it as he stares at the unassuming lined notebook paper. There’s no way he can do this. He’s read over the instructions again and again, trying to make some idea of what to write emerge but he’s got nothing. Well. That’s not true. He’s got a pounding heart and the urge to lose his lunch, but he doesn’t have any words to write. 

_Write about what you have been thinking about the cause of the worst event_.

Worst event. How the _fuck_ is he supposed to pick just one? 

He breaks another pencil. 

Bucky is puttering around the kitchen, Gucci hugging so close to his ankles that he’s tripping over her, while Steve sits at the bar. He’s making soup, filling the kitchen with a heavenly smell that sends Steve right back to afternoons sitting at the Barinov family’s kitchen table with Bucky and Becca, bent over homework. God, it would be nice to be complaining over times tables instead of doing _this_.

“Bucky, I can’t do-”

“Yes, you can.” Bucky nudges Gucci out of the way with the side of his foot so he can wrap his arms around Steve from behind, pressing a kiss to the crown of his head. “I believe in you.” 

He sighs and picks up another pencil. This time he’s gonna write it, he _is_. Fuck, what is he gonna write about? Drowning in the ice? That was the most physcial pain he’s ever been in, it had been fucking terrifying and it had taken _so long_. But in a way it had been a relief. The alien invasion? Bucky dying? Which _time_ Bucky died, though? 

It all started with the train. 

Not true, it started with the fucking draft pulling Bucky’s number, changing everything forever. Combat had been sickening, terrible, scary as fuck. But that isn’t what he sees when he closes his eyes at night. 

_It all started with The Train_ , he writes at the top of the page, in spiky handwriting. 

Then he crosses it out and writes, _It all started with the night before The Train_.

_It’s my fault that everything happened. I was told my entire life that my hardheadedness would take me places I didn’t want to go one day. It was my hardheadedness that made me take that mission. I was so goddamn cocksure, so fucking _positive_ that everything would go fine because we’d had a good run with no major injuries for a few months. I thought we were on a roll, I thought we were invincible. It’s my fault, but I’m not the only one who had to pay the price. Bucky pulled me aside the night before The Train- we always took watch together. Me and Bucky. We were checking the perimeter of the camp and he grabbed my elbow and he told me he didn’t think it was a good idea. He thought we should stop, not go after Zola, not like that at least. I didn’t listen. I thought it was a sure thing. I never fucking listened to anyone back then. I swore when I came to this timeline, if I got my chance with this Bucky, that I’d change. I’m trying so hard to listen, I am. Why didn’t I listen when it mattered the most? If I had listened to Bucky, we wouldn’t have gotten on the train and Bucky wouldn’t have fallen and we would have won the war and gone home. If I had killed that Hydra guy when I had the chance instead of just knocking him out, he wouldn’t have gotten up again and blasted the train open and Bucky wouldn’t have fallen and we would have won the war and gone home. If I had reached farther, held him tighter, Bucky wouldn’t have fallen and… well, you get it. But none of that happened. Bucky fell and it was my fault. Because it was my fault, I didn’t deserve to or want to live to see victory. It was no victory without Bucky. So I crashed the plane, even though I could have gotten off of it. I didn’t want to live so I made sure I didn’t._

_I’m scared every minute of every day that I’ll fail to protect him again. I’ve seen him die twice already and both times were my fault. I have this miraculous serum that has done so much for me, given me a life that I could have never had otherwise. But what good is it if I can’t save anyone who matters? All those people I’ve saved, sure that’s great and all. But they don’t _matter_ to me personally. I don’t grieve over each one that I don’t save. Sure, I’m sorrowful that innocent people die, but they don’t mean anything to me. That’s a really shitty thing of me to say. But it’s true. If I was faced with having to have the deaths of a hundred million people be my fault or Bucky’s death be my fault? It’s no competition. He’s my anchor. Without him, I sink. I don’t even know if that’s a working analogy. I don’t really care. And I’m not fucking stupid, I know we’re crazy codependent. I know that’s not always a good thing- hell, the fact that I’ve tried to kill myself each time I’ve lost him tells me it’s not a good thing at all. I don’t know what to do about that, though. I’m not the therapist here._

_It’s not that I don’t feel safe with myself. I don’t care about my safety. My thoughts- Bucky called them Intrusive Thoughts- tell me to step off a cliff? Fine. I don’t want to die anymore but I’m not scared of it either. I didn’t care about my safety before the serum, before the war. I knew I was dying, I didn’t really care when it happened. I just didn’t want it to be a sickness that took me. After the serum, I still didn’t care about my own safety but in the light of sacrificing myself for the greater good. I guess I never learned how to give a shit about myself, because there’s no war now, no higher reason for me to be reckless. And I still don’t care about my safety. Don’t give a shit if I die or not. Which sucks, because I’m getting married in three weeks and we’re buying a house and I should be actively caring about protecting myself so that I live to have that life. It’s not that I want to die. I don’t want to die. I just… self-safety isn’t a concern that ever comes to mind. I don’t think about it._

_I think I covered trust with the whole spiel on codependency. I trust Bucky, unconditionally. I trusted Natasha. I trusted Tony. I trust Sam. I don’t have a lot of trouble trusting people in general, I tend to believe that everyone has good in them, in spite of everything I’ve seen to the contrary. I trust people on an individual basis. What I don’t trust is organizations. Hell, Hydra was in SHIELD all along and nobody fucking noticed until it was almost too late. I wouldn’t have noticed, even after finding their fucking weapons, if I hadn’t been told. So, no. I don’t trust the governments. I don’t trust the police. I don’t trust the Avengers here. I don’t know them well enough. I don’t think this has anything to do with The Train, but the sheet said to talk about trust so. As far as the effects the event has had on my trust… I don’t trust myself to save him when he needs me. It all boils down to that. I don’t trust myself to not let him down again._

_I don’t feel in control of anything. I can’t control the nightmares, the way I watch him die over and over again in my sleep. I can’t control my fear that it will happen again. I can’t control my fucking thoughts when they tell me to do bad things to myself. Not just ripping my palms open with my nails when I get anxious but Really Bad things. Like step off a cliff. I didn’t have control over that. I’d had the thoughts before the serum but since The Train, I can’t control them. I have the most tenuous, fragile grip on them. I’m out of my depth in this century, even though I’m working on adjusting. I can’t control that. And I’m not one of those people that likes to be in control all the time, not at all, whatever my military title might have said about it. I like to hand over the reins and let someone else lead, I like to be taken care of. But there’s a difference in letting go of control on purpose and just having no control over anything at all. I don’t like that. War taught me that death is swift and inevitable for everyone. There’s no escaping it. Again, I’m not afraid of not being in control of my own death. I hate not being able to prevent the deaths of others. I hate that I’m not good enough to save them._

_I HATE myself. For everything. I hated myself from childhood. I was never good enough until I got the serum. For a while, in the war, I finally felt like I was enough. The Train taught me that I will never be good enough. All I had to do was hold him. All I had to do was keep him from plummeting to the bottom of that ravine. Our fingers brushed, a second before he fell. I felt his fingertips touch mine. And I couldn’t just fucking grab his hand. I wasn’t fast enough. I wasn’t good enough. I wasn’t. I’m still not. I wasn’t good enough to just die when I crashed that plane. I wasn’t good enough to keep Bucky from dying in 2012. I’m not good enough to deserve him here and now but goddammit, I’m not ever fucking giving him up. Death will have to rip him from me again and I still won’t quit him. I don’t think I’m worthless, because I know in spite of it all, I’m loved. Even if I know I don’t deserve it._

_Sex is easy. I don’t have to think about anything other than making sure he feels good. I don’t need to think about myself because he thinks about me. It’s an even exchange. I can use sex to get out of my head when I need it. As far as emotional intimacy goes, it’s complicated. I don’t like to show my bad emotions. I feel like I’m being a burden if I do. Like, he’s been through so much already, he shouldn’t have to deal with my shit too, even when he says he doesn’t mind. Positive emotions are easy, I’m so grateful to be able to show them. I don’t think these are affected by the traumatic event. I’ve always had a hard time with showing weakness._

It feels like an abrupt end to the impact statement, but he’s dragged his entire soul through hell just dredging up the words to put on the paper. He’s tired. Nothing about it is good enough but he can’t be bothered to go back and fix it. He breathes out slowly, putting the pencil down and closing the notebook. “Done.” 

Bucky turns away from the pot on the stove, his brows lifted. “You did the whole thing at once?” 

“Yeah. I didn’t want to have to come back and get the nerve up to start writing again later. I just wanted it over with.” He rubs his hands over his face roughly, slouching down in his chair. “God.” 

“Hey,” Bucky holds out his hand, “C’mere.” He waits until Steve has pushed to his feet and walked around the counter to lean into his arms. “I’m so damn proud of you.” 

“I feel like I just wrote a bunch of inconsistent bullshit.” He’d had a hard time keeping it to just the effects of the train itself. All of the bad things kind of bleed into each other, muddying any kind of clarity he might have had otherwise. It’s a butterfly effect, but he doesn’t know how to find the source of everything. 

“Doesn’t matter. You _wrote it_. That’s enough. Nobody’s expecting it to be perfect. Mine was _terrible_.”

He hums, pressing his face against the curve of Bucky’s neck. “I’m just over it. I wanna focus on the wedding planning and not think about impact statements or stuck points until I have to.” 

“Well, good news. After we eat lunch, we get to go pick up the new car and then we have to go meet the wedding planner to talk about flowers and cake and whatever other shit that we don’t care about.” 

The wedding package they’d paid for also came with a planner and she’s been calling them at all hours to get their opinions on things like _color schemes_ , and _live music_ , and _cake tastings_. Not so discreetly complaining that normally these things would be finalized months before the wedding. It seems like an overdone process. They need rings, they need someone to marry them, and they need a marriage license. Anything beyond that is just extra. They’ve already sent in the application for the marriage license and they’re going shopping for suits later in the week when Sam gets back from DC. Since he and Sage are standing up with Bucky, they need to get clothing for them as well. 

Steve doesn’t have anyone to stand up with him. No one in this timeline he knows well enough to ask. If he thinks about it for too long, it aches, deep in his chest. He misses his mother. He misses the Howlies. He misses Peggy, even though the weight of what Other Steve had done casts a dark shadow over his thoughts of her. He misses Natasha. But it’s not doing him any good to dwell on it, so he pushes it down, pretends it doesn’t matter. He’s marrying Bucky. That’s enough. 

***

He has to fill in the PCL-5 _again_ at the start of their next session. It feels like he’s just backpedaling instead of making progress because with the memories and the thoughts that the impact statement had dredged up, he’s had a week fucking plagued with nightmares and panic attacks. So he scores even worse on the PTSD scale than he had last time, when he’d been filling it out after a good week. When he goes to read the impact statement aloud, he chokes on his words. His hands are sweating so much that the paper is damp with it. When he drops it after the first paragraph to go to dig his fingernails into his palms, Amelia hands him something called Play-Doh and has him squeeze it instead. After he finally, _finally_ finishes reading it aloud, he puts his head in his hands and counts to ten. And then again. Until his breathing is somewhat level, if hitching. He’s too hot, his skin prickling. “It was terrible, wasn’t it? I did it all wrong. I got _off track_. I-”

“It was exactly what you needed it to be.” Amelia cuts him off with a smile. “There are no rights or wrongs here. You’re the one in control. We’ll work through everything throughout the CPT process, but this is a strong start. Let’s talk about stuck points. Can you pick any out from your impact statement?” 

He’d marked a few on the stuck point reference sheet, but he hadn’t made a list of them from his impact statement. Maybe he was supposed to but by the time he had finished with it, he wasn’t in any state of mind to have anything to do with it again until he absolutely had to. “It’s my fault everything happened.” That one is easy. It’s the first fucking line of the impact statement. “It’s the truth though; it’s not a stuck point. It’s just a fact.” 

“If it wasn’t a stuck point, you wouldn’t have said it when I asked you to pick some out. You’re a very smart guy, Steve. Tell me what the stuck point help sheet says about the definition of them.” 

_Damn_ his memory. “Stuck points are thoughts that you have that keep you stuck from recovering,” he recites blankly, like a mission report. “These thoughts may not be one hundred percent accurate. Stuck points may be thoughts about your understanding of why the trauma happened or thoughts about yourself, others, and the world that have changed dramatically as a result of the trauma. Stuck points are concise statements.” 

She doesn’t appear even the slightest bit startled by his word perfect recitation. “So, when you say _it’s my fault everything happened_ , does it fit that definition.” 

“Yes,” he admits. Grudgingly. 

“So that makes it a….”

He folds his arms. “It makes it the truth.” 

“Write it down. And write down _I can’t save anyone who matters_.”

This isn’t going to fucking help. These aren’t inaccurate beliefs about himself or the event or what the fuck ever. They’re cold hard facts and when he’s written them down in his notebook in harsh dark lines from pressing the pencil too hard to the paper, they’re still cold hard facts, just staring him in the face now. He swallows, twisting the damp wood of the pencil between his finger and thumb. He’d like to ask what purpose this is supposed to serve, but he knows the answer. The handouts had been clear and Bucky had explained the process too. And Steve had Googled it. He understands the premise behind it and sees the proof that it works. But it just… he’s too fucked up. It’s not going to work on _him_.

Amelia gets him to go through the impact statement paragraph by paragraph, picking out stuck points. If I had killed the Hydra agent, Bucky wouldn’t have fallen from the train. Because Bucky fell, I don’t deserve to be happy. My safety is not important. Government protection cannot be trusted. I will let down the people who care about me. I don’t have control over my life. I am not good enough. I don’t deserve love. If I show weakness, I will be a burden. 

On. And on. And on. 

She challenges each and every one of them with heavy questions about where they stem from and explanations of how traumatic events can cause each thought. How each thought can directly influence feelings. A few of them he can acknowledge as half-truth beliefs about himself that have wedged themselves so deeply into his psyche that he thinks them automatically, that _feel_ true, but aren’t really. The rest… he doesn’t want to think about those. The unfortunate thing about therapy is that it requires a lot of thinking about the exact things he doesn’t want to think about. When Amelia pulls another worksheet out of her folder, he groans. “What _now_?”

“This is the Challenging Questions Worksheet. We’re gonna pick a stuck point today and fill it out. It’s up to you which one.” 

He scans the list written in his notebook. None of them are easy subjects, but some of them are easier than the rest. “The government can’t be trusted.” 

“Alright, good.” She writes the stuck point on the paper. “Now tell me the evidence _for_ this stuck point. 

He stares at her. “Is this a joke?” What single thing about the government _is there_ to be trusted? They’re all a bunch of liars, a bunch of power and money hungry fucks who don’t care about the people. 

“Not at all. In your words, why can’t the government be trusted?” 

“They’re terrorists. Propaganda is brainwashing on a mass scale. They don’t care that the environment is being fucked by big corporations. They got taken over by Nazis and they didn’t even notice. I can go on.” Even though he hadn’t even fully wanted to resign, he _knew_ that all the fucking government organizations were corrupt. SWORD probably already has undercover agents from Hydra and every other terrorist cell working for them. But at least if he was also working for them, he could have a monitor on the situation. Sam is gonna do a great job, Sharon will do a great job, but it makes him antsy, itching to sign back up every time he thinks about the possibilities. He wants retirement, but he wants to fight for what’s right too. 

“Great. Now what’s the evidence _against_ the stuck point.” 

“There isn’t any.” He rolls his eyes when she just smiles patiently at him. “I don’t know what you want me to say. Sure, there are great people working for the government, people I know that will do great work for keeping the population safe. But on a _whole_ , governments have agendas, they’re _always_ corrupt. Their answer to world peace is world fear. They can never have enough weapons and they don’t care who gets hurt in the process. It’s all about being the most powerful.” 

“Okay, let’s move on to the next one. I’m going to read off three questions and you pick the one that you understand best and answer it. One, in what ways is your stuck point not including all of the information? Two, in what way is your stuck point focused on just one piece of the story? Three, in what ways is this stuck point focused on unrelated parts of the story?” 

“The story?” He frowns. “You mean the train? Because I chose it to focus on when I wrote the impact statement? I guess the third one. I told you I got off topic when I was writing it.” There’s a piece of loose skin around one of his nails. He rips it off. “The stuck point has nothing to do with the story, I was just coming up with shit about what I do and do not trust because the sheet said to talk about it.” 

She hums and then rattles off another set of questions, telling him to pick three. They’re easier to answer- yes, the stuck point is based in fact. Yes, the stuck point came from personal experience and from things he’s learned from others. No, he’s not confusing something that is possible with something that’s likely. 

“Now I’m going to introduce you to something called the A-B-C Worksheet. This is going to be part of your homework.” 

“Yay,” he says drily. 

“The Challenging Questions Worksheet is something that we use in filling out the A-B-C Worksheet. I wanted to go through it separately with you to make sure we’re thorough on that section. Right now, we’re gonna fill out an A-B-C Worksheet together on the stuck point you chose before we end our session but over the week I want you to fill out at least one each day on your own, as soon after an event as possible.” She clips a paper into her clipboard and moves to sit next to him on the couch, handing it to him. The sheet has six columns, labeled A through F. Amelia taps the first one with her nail. “The Activating Event. Something happened that led you to the Belief or stuck point of _the government can’t be trusted_. Fill in the first box.” 

Oh, that’s easy. _The government was taken over by Nazis,_ he writes neatly. There’s a lot more he could add, but the box is small and that pretty much sums everything up anyway. He adds the stuck point in box B and then hesitates over the third one. Consequence. How does the stuck point make me feel? He could use The Feelings Wheel here but it’s better if it’s in his own words. The way he’d freaked out when he’d read the article about Area 51 is proof enough about how he feels. _I must always be on guard. I can’t trust things other people tell me about the government until I confirm them for myself. Wary, Distrustful. On edge._

Section D is the challenging questions they’ve already gone through. Amelia offers little suggestions for box E- things he can tell himself in the future to counteract those emotions, like asking someone who’s word he trusts about the situation instead of insisting on confirming facts personally ( _Area 51_ ). He’s not sure how that makes him feel yet, so they leave box F blank for now. She wants him to practice the new belief and fill it in before the next session. He adds the stack of A-B-C worksheets to the binder that he’d gotten to keep all the therapy paperwork in and sees her to the door. 

One more session over. One more session closer to being done. 

***

At 2am, Bucky stiffens up enough to wake Steve from his fitful sleep. A firm hand presses over his mouth and Bucky whispers low in his ear, “There’s someone in the apartment.” 

The words knock any lingering sleepiness from Steve, his heart kicking hard against his rib cage. He nods, waiting until Bucky removes his hand to roll over silently and grab Mjolnir from under the bed. The fishhooks of electricity burrow beneath his skin, setting his blood pumping. 

Their bedroom light turns on. 

Natasha Romanoff neatly sidesteps the knife Bucky throws, smirking when it embeds in the wall where her head had just been. She’s got Gucci cradled in her arms and he could swear the cat looks nicer than he’s ever seen her. “Good throw. Your cat likes me, by the way.” 

“ _Nat?_ ” Steve drops Mjolnir, scrambling off the bed, but Bucky grabs his wrist before he can even get a single step closer to her. 

“Stand down, Barnes.” Nat folds her arms across her chest. Her hair is straight now, resting just below her shoulders and she’s got an air of authority that she hadn’t had the last time he’d seen her. “In 2012 Steve Rogers came to our timeline and took the mind stone from Loki’s staff. When he later came to return it, he left us with files of information about Hydra’s existence in SHIELD and about finding the Winter Soldier. Because of purposefully omitted information, our timeline’s Bucky Barnes died before he could be rehabilitated. Our Steve Rogers then unlocked more files of information and he, Tony Stark, Hank Pym, Hope Van Dyne, Bruce Banner, and myself worked together on a quantum time machine. I came here with Steve to find you. We reconnected on the sidewalk outside a coffee shop. I later cornered you in the bathroom of Sam Wilson’s house. It’s been just under two months in this timeline since that happened. However, it’s now 2014 in my timeline. I’m here because we’ve established a form of inter-timeline communication. Also, Rogers,” she levels a mock glare at Steve, bending down to set Gucci on the floor. “I believe I told you that I better get to be your best man at your wedding.” 

Bucky drops Steve’s wrist and he darts across the room, wrapping her up in a tight hug. She laughs, patting his back. “I didn’t think you’d actually come back.” 

“I told you I’d visit, Steve.” She steps back, giving him a thorough once-over. “ _Love_ the haircut. And the trail of hickies.” 

He flushes, rolling his eyes as a soft lump of material hits the back of his head. He grabs the shirt from the floor when it falls. “Thanks for that,” he mumbles, pulling it over his head. “How long are you here for?” 

Natasha moves around him to settle in the armchair, nodding at him to sit down on the bed with Bucky. “It’s complicated,” she says as he sinks down on the mattress. “I won’t bore you with the scientific details but the communicators we’ve developed are going to require some new tech to be built here. It’s not unlike a cellular tower, just… using quantum energy. I don’t even fully understand how it works, I’m just the messenger. I’m staying at Clint’s safe house here for now and I’m in contact with Bruce and Hope on the technology. And Sharon and Sam on the politics of it. I’m here until we get that up and running, but then I’ve got to get back to 2014. It’ll probably take a couple weeks at the _least_ , so I can definitely be around for the big wedding. I’m not gonna say I told you so, but I will say congratulations. I’m very happy that you both got at least some of your shit together and will now be continuing on as the old married couple you already act like.” 

“Fury agreed to the security risk of being able to contact a separate timeline?” Bucky inquires, leaning forward, elbows on his knees. His hair is a goddamn _mess_ \- from sleep, from Steve tangling his hands in it and pulling it earlier. He lifts a hand, gently working at the tangles with his fingers. 

“Fury died in 2012, purging Hydra from SHIELD. I’m director now.” 

“It suits you,” Steve tells her, smiling. It does, not that being a spy or an Avenger hadn’t. But she seems more settled in her own skin now, not trying to fit herself into a role. He wants to ask more questions, find out more about how the timeline he’d left behind has fared in the two year gap. But it’s two am and now that he’s coming down from the adrenaline rush of the intruder scare, he’s tired again. He’d had an… active evening, all but begging Bucky to just take him out of his head for a little while when the weight of the therapy session had started to crash down on him. And Bucky had been more than willing to go along with it; spending hours lovingly keeping Steve on the knife edge of pleasure, but not letting him fall over the edge until he’d been nearly delirious with it. It had been _incredible_. He leans his head over on Bucky’s shoulder. “You couldn’t have knocked on the door during the day like a regular person instead of breaking and entering in the night?” 

She smirks, standing and brushing imaginary creases from her skin tight leather pants. “That’s not my style. And I was in the neighborhood. Thought I’d drop in and say hi.” 

“We’re having fittings with Sam and Sage for wedding attire tomorrow afternoon at the Alexander McQueen store,” Bucky announces, “if you’re gonna be in the wedding party, you should probably drop in and get fitted too.” 

“Sure. But I’m not wearing a dress. See you tomorrow.” 

Steve does spend most of the next morning wondering how it’s supposed to work, that Natasha is just walking around in this timeline like she belongs here when her death was publicly announced a few months earlier. When she’d come with him to this timeline except for that first day when they were getting their bearings, she’d mostly stayed indoors at either Sam’s place or Clint’s safe house. And most people were too preoccupied with the return of the population to care about anything else. This time is different. It would be a media nightmare if she suddenly showed up alive. But those curiosities are laid to rest when a woman with jet black, knee length hair and a vaguely familiar face comes up to him in the designer’s store, squeezing him in a hug. “Wig and holographic facial prosthesis,” she mutters in his ear before stepping back. “Well, set me up with the most sparkly suit they’ve got in this place.” 

“Who is this? I thought Natasha was coming.” Sage wanders over to them, hands tucked in the pockets of her jacket. She’s been in on all the drama all along because of her proximity to Sam and Bucky but since she’s signed the NDAs, they’d opted to let her know about Natasha coming back. 

“What, you don’t recognize me? Wow, I’m hurt.” 

Sage squints at her, then shrugs. 

Bucky’s in with the fitter right now and Steve has already had his turn. Then Sam, Sage, and Nat will get their measurements taken and they’ll go from there. They don’t have time to get custom clothing made- they’re down to just nine days until the wedding, but they’ve picked out some things from the ready to wear collection and they’ll be altered to a perfect fit. Steve picked out a royal blue suit with gold embroidered detailing along the cuffs and the lapels and Bucky had gone with one that was deep gold to match Steve’s. The back of Bucky’s suit jacket has a beaded and sequined pattern in black. They hadn’t intentionally gone with a color theme in mind but they’d ended up with one anyway. Natasha wanders around the store, chatting with them while she waits for her turn in the fitting room. It’s all small talk about their road trip and the wedding, nothing classified. 

After the fitting they end up wedged into a booth in a nearby diner, sipping on coffees and sharing a huge plate of French toast. Even Bucky and Sage nibble on a piece they split in half. It’s none of Steve’s business and he doesn’t even know if Bucky knows about how she’s doing, but Sage is looking healthier than she had when he’d first arrived in this timeline, her face less sunken in, the bones not quite as sharp. 

Sam is complaining about his entire DC trip just being meetings after meetings. “Diplomacy and politics are important, I get it,” he sighs, dipping his toast into a little cup of maple syrup. “But there’s shit happening _now_ that I should be helping keep under control. And yet we’re tied down with so much red tape that we can’t do anything.” 

“Welcome to my world,” Nat mutters. “It’s not that I don’t like my… position. But there was something to be said for just being another one of the employees. It’s a lot of pressure, being at the head of this kind of organization, but it can be rewarding. And I still take field work sometimes. It keeps me from getting restless.” 

“Hey, what happened to, uh, Sam that lives where you live?” 

“Oh, I looked him up when I got back from visiting here the first time. I got him and Riley pulled from the Air Force and reassigned them to leading a specialized team in taking down Hydra. They’re alive and well.” 

“Who’s Riley?” Steve looks over to Sam, the question dying on his tongue when he sees the expression on his face. 

He looks fragile, like someone’s just punched him in the stomach. When he sucks in a breath, his bottom lip trembles. “Riley’s alive?” He blinks, and the shimmer of liquid in his eyes coalesces into tears sliding down his cheeks. He scrubs the back of his hand harshly across his face. “When… uh, when everything is set up with the new… phone towers. Can I talk to him?” 

Natasha hesitates, glancing around. “His clearance level isn’t high enough for that right now but I think… yes, eventually. I’ll work it out. But you understand that it isn’t something that can go on long term, right? Everybody wants a chance to have their lost loved ones back- but that’s the kind of thing that will cause both sides to collapse if we make an exception for everyone who asks.” 

“I understand. I get it,” Sam sniffles and clears his throat. “I just want a chance to say goodbye. I swear I won’t ask again.” 

“I’ll work it out,” Nat repeats, reaching across the table to squeeze his hand. “You can have that much.” 

***

December 22nd dawns frosty and cold, but with a clear sky and a gorgeous sunrise that takes Steve’s breath away as he looks out the kitchen window, sipping his coffee. They’ve only got a few hours before they have to head over to the venue. The past two weeks have been nonstop chaos of getting everything finalized at the last minute, but they’ve finally made it to the big day. 

He’s getting married today. 

There had been a few people who had tried to tell him that nerves are normal, that cold feet are normal. He’s not nervous. He doesn’t have a single doubt about any of it. The wedding could be a fucking disaster by the future’s standards and he won’t care. He’s not stressed about it. As long as he gets to say _I do_. Today he is Steve Rogers. 

Tomorrow he will be Steve Barnes. 

He hoists himself up to sit on the marble countertop, his movements quiet because Bucky is still asleep. It’s not really that anything is going to change, it’s not that being married will actually make a difference in their relationship. But it still feels big. This is his forever moment with his forever person. They’re still fucked up; he’d struggled his way through another CPT session and Bucky video chats with his therapist weekly. They have a lot of heavy shit to get through. But here’s this big shining beacon of good and right and happiness, a bright spot in the darkness. He twists his engagement ring around his finger. There’s a new one, he knows, but he hasn’t seen it yet. Bucky had returned from a visit with Shuri with it tucked in his pocket. There’s also one that will fit on Bucky’s left hand and not hinder his movement. 

It makes his heart swell in his chest, makes him swallow his coffee around the lump in the back of the throat. He’s _finally_ putting a ring on Bucky Barnes’ finger. His mother had told him once when he’d been a child, sick in bed with scarlet fever, that someday he would find a person who would make him feel like his heart is singing. A person who would make the cruel world rose colored and happy. A person he would find and marry. He’d been confused at the time, even as young as he was, because Bucky was already all that and more. The way Bucky made him feel had made her words seem pale. But he’d never thought they’d actually reach a point where being married was even a possibility so he had carefully folded that dream up before it could form, gently tucked it away behind lock at key at the bottom of his heart, and _never_ let it see the light. 

Bucky has a way of bringing the darkest parts of him to the surface, turning them from twisted things that shy away from life and the world into fucking _flowers_ , flourishing in the light. 

Okay, so he’s in love. Poetically so. 

He brings Bucky coffee and kisses him in bed and then kisses him in the shower too, gently lathering shampoo into his hair. They take their time, lazy, unhurried; hushed whispers almost inaudible under the pounding water around them. It’s not even about sex, although he does let Bucky push him back against the tiled wall to drop to his knees and take Steve in his mouth and afterwards Steve returns the favor- but the time they spend together feels different today. Like they’re wrapped up in a bubble that neither of them wants to break. Time moves slower inside it. 

He sits on the counter, towel wrapped around his waist while Bucky works different products into his hair. Steve hadn’t really understood the process of it until he’d gotten his new hairstyle. With the perm, even being more just for volume and wave than curl, Bucky’s started talking him through each step and helping him style his hair because he hasn’t gotten the hang of it yet. It’s different not being able to just yank a comb through it, slick it back with a little gel, and call it good. Now he has to _moisturize_ and _define_ and _diffuse_. The style looks good, but he’s not sure he’ll get it again. 

“Can you hand me a hair tie?” Bucky mumbles, tugging his hair back. When Steve passes him the elastic he pulls it into a bun at the crown of his head, grimacing at a few stray pieces. “Well, it’ll look better later.” 

There’s going to be a stylist at the venue- it had been part of the wedding package, though Steve isn’t sure she’ll be able to do much for him and Sam. Bucky, Sage, and Nat on the other hand all have long hair. It’s gonna look good for the pictures, he’s sure, but he’s also a little- _a lot_ \- territorial anyone else touching Bucky’s hair. “It looks fine now, Buck.” 

Bucky leans in, cupping Steve’s chin in his hand and kisses him, “You’re sweet. Keep it up and I might just marry you.” 

“Oh really?” He snickers, jumping down from the counter to head toward the bedroom. “I heard Feelings is going around, did you catch it?” He teases, looking back over his shoulder. 

“Yeah, I got a pretty terminal case here, Steve. No cure to be found.” 

“What a shame.” He drops his towel, pulling on a pair of skin tight briefs. Their suits were delivered to the venue the day before so he throws on a pair of Bucky’s ripped black jeans and a loose t-shirt that says Fleetwood Mac on the front in faded letters. He’s not really sure where most of the clothes in their closet came from, they just appear and he wears them if they catch his eye. Sometimes he just reaches in and grabs something at random. Bucky’s the one that painstakingly plans his outfits. Steve just doesn’t care. “How long until we need to leave?” The wedding is set for 4:30 in the afternoon, just at dusk when all the Christmas lights have come on. 

“Mm,” Bucky grabs his phone from the nightstand, glancing at the screen as he shoves his legs into yellow sweatpants. “Pretty much now. T minus six hours. This’ll give us time to stop by somewhere and grab… I dunno. Donuts or something. Brunch for everyone who rushed to make this possible.” He straightens up, tucking the phone in his pocket so he can pull his black turtleneck on. “You ready?” 

Steve pulls his gaze away from Bucky’s thighs, raking his teeth across his bottom lip. There’ll be time enough for that later. “Yeah, let’s go.” 

It takes them an entire goddamn hour and a half to get food and make it the few blocks from their apartment to Rockefeller. Traffic is even worse than usual with the Christmas tourists in the city. The great thing about Bucky’s new car is the seats are _heated_ and fucking comfortable. The engine hums low and smooth, nothing like the road trip van had. He lolls his head back against the headrest as they sit in traffic, his hand resting in Bucky’s. “Can I have a muffin?” He asks, just to be a little shit. 

Bucky looks mildly horrified when he looks over. “ _Crumbs_ , Steve.” He sighs when Steve widens his eyes, blinking at him. “You can have as many muffins as you want.” 

“I’m teasing,” he snickers, reaching for the volume knob on the radio. The station is playing nonstop Christmas music. Although this is his first year in the future, he’s picked up most of the lyrics to the new array of carols, so he can sing along to song playing. “Think of all the fun I’ve missed… think of all the fellas that I haven’t kissed,” he smirks over at Bucky. For the longest time, he’d hated singing in front of anyone other than his mother, but the good thing about the future- for all that getting here has fucked him in the head- is that it’s relaxed some of his uptightness. He’s a _good_ singer, and he knows it, it was just always awkward somehow, _before_. 

“Better not be kissing any other fellas,” Bucky faux grumbles, but he’s grinning as he pulls into the Rockefeller Center garage. They’ve got a parking spot reserved so they don’t have to search for one at least. They each take a few boxes from the bakery as they head up to the dressing rooms. 

He’s still not nervous, but there’s a flutter in Steve’s stomach, a lightness in his steps. His voice comes out just a little higher than normal when he greets their wedding planner. Sam, Sage, and Nat all arrived before they did so they pounce on the baked goods as soon as they’re set out on the tables. Steve takes a chocolate chip muffin and wanders over to Nat. “Hey.” 

“Hey, Rogers.” She looks him up and down. “You’ve got a honeymoon glow and you’re not even married yet.” 

“Thank you,” he blurts out, taking a deep breath. “You didn’t have to do everything for me that you did- you barely even knew me but… it’s because of you that I’m here to be this happy. Thank you for coming back.” 

“It’s not because of me,” Nat shakes her head. She’s smiling but her eyes are solemn as she reaches out and taps his chest just over his heart with one finger. “It’s because of this. Listen, I’d never believed in love. It was a fairy tale. I still don’t believe in it for myself. But you and Barnes… that’s real, Steve. If I had to call it something, I’d say you were soulmates.” 

Soulmates. He glances over at Bucky, smiling as he watches him dance with Sage to the music playing over the speakers. They’re laughing at something, Bucky’s face lit up with it. That’s enough to make Steve’s heart swell in his chest, make him feel like he could glow, just basking in the outskirts of Bucky’s joy. “Love is real,” he turns his attention back to her. “It’s the realest thing I know.” 

“You’re gonna do just fine, Steve.” She touches his cheek lightly. “If anyone deserves a happily ever after, it’s the two of you.” 

His smile is wobbly, but genuine. “Help me get ready?” 

“’Course.” 

Much to his and Bucky’s chagrin, they’re separated, not allowed to see each other until the ceremony. But he passes the few hours with Natasha, even letting her brush mascara onto his lashes and gloss onto his lips because _‘it will make all the difference in the pictures, Steve’_. Thirty minutes before the ceremony, he changes into his suit. Natasha pulls out a crown of golden leaves and settles it in his hair. He slides his feet into the shoes Bucky had insisted he get at Gucci. They match his suit perfectly. 

They’d argued back and forth a little over who would be the one to stand at the altar and who would walk down the aisle, but Steve had ended up agreeing to do the aisle walk after Bucky had whined that he wanted to _surprise_ Steve. With what, he hadn’t said. 

It becomes clear when the doors open and Steve gets a glimpse at the _massive_ Christmas tree Bucky’s standing in front of instead of a garland wrapped archway like the decorators had said they’d be doing. His breath catches in his throat. It’s not the Rockefeller tree. It’s _better_ , because Bucky made it happen _just_ for him. He waits, arm in arm with Natasha as Sam and Sage walk down the aisle to stand beside Bucky. They don’t have a _lot_ of guests, but the chairs are mostly full. Shuri’s in the front row. There’s a lot of people that he doesn’t recognize- Bucky’s friends- but a lot of people he _does_ know. Thor is here, Scott Lang and his daughter, Hope Van Dyne, Amelia, Sam’s mother, Clint, and a few others. “I didn’t think anyone would come,” he whispers. 

“Hey,” Nat nudges him. “You may not know them well, but there are a lot of people here who love you. Of course they came.” 

He doesn’t get a chance to reply because it’s their turn to walk. He takes his first step with his chin held high, meets Bucky’s eyes and smiles. _Here Comes The Bride_ hadn’t really been a desirable choice for the music, so he’d decided on Greensleeves instead, a violin and flute duet. His mother had hummed the song to him many Christmas, miserably sick in bed. It’s the closest he’ll get to having her here with him. The first snowflakes start falling when he reaches the end of the aisle, letting go of Nat’s arm to stand next to Bucky. 

Bucky, who looks fucking _ethereal_. His hair is done in an elaborate half up style, gold ribbons woven into complex braids. The light of the tree is reflecting off gold highlight on his cheekbones, nose, and cupids bow and gold liner on his eyes. Steve swallows hard around the lump in his throat. “You’re so beautiful,” he whispers, blinking snow from his eyes. It’s _freezing_ out and he doesn’t even feel it, the burning joy in his chest not leaving room for anything else. The Justice of the Peace is talking, reciting the dearly beloved speech, but Steve can’t tear his eyes from Bucky. He reaches out, hooking his pinky finger around Bucky’s and squeezing gently. 

When they’re asked to recite their vows, he panics a little, because he never got around to writing any down. But Bucky knows and he smiles at Steve reassuring. Steve takes a shaky breath. “Bucky Barnes. I met you when I was so young that I can barely remember what life was before you crashed into my life and told me I looked tough with a split lip. I had no idea, back then, what you would become to me, but I knew from that very first day that you were something special. Something to hold tight and _never_ let go.” He squeezes Bucky’s hand again, clearing his throat as he turns to take the golden ring Natasha is holding out to him. “There has been… so much _senseless_ tragedy on the road we took to get to this point. And somehow, in spite of it all, we still made our way back to each other. I’m not the science genius of the two of us; I don’t know what the right word is to call this. But I know you’re my center of gravity. You’re the sun and I will orbit around you until every star in the heavens loses light. If we ever get lost from each other again, I won’t stop looking until we’re found. The universe can throw what it wants at us, it will never be hard work to me, not if I’m with you. I love you.” He takes Bucky’s left hand, sliding the ring over his cool metal finger. It slots into place perfectly in the little groove Shuri had modified. “With this ring. I thee wed.” 

Bucky’s lower lip is trembling, silent tears slipping down his face. “Christ, Steve.” He blows a breath out, swiping his thumb across his face to brush away the tears. “God, you’re so… do you know I’d been watching you for weeks before I finally got the nerve up to actually talk to you in school that day? You just had… _so_ much personality, the biggest heart, a burning determination to prove yourself. It shone from you, every second of every day. It still does. If anything, I’m the one spinning ‘round you, my sunshine boy. I know you hate cats but you always reminded me of one, digging your claws into life and refusing to let go of it, despite everything about the world trying to get you to give it up. The truth is, I have _never_ loved anyone the way I have loved you, from before I even knew what love was. You’re my only dream. I will _cherish_ you with every bit of my heart, every day. For the rest of our lives.” He takes the ring from Sam, looking down at it and taking a deep breath before looking up at Steve. 

Bucky’s fingers are warm and the ring is cold when he slides it slowly, so slowly, on Steve’s ring finger, until it nestles against the engagement ring that he couldn’t bring himself to take off. The wedding ring is gold and engraved with a Celtic knot pattern. The same one that had been on his mother’s wedding ring. Steve swallows hard. 

“With this ring,” Bucky whispers, “I thee wed.” 

He doesn’t wait for permission to step into Bucky’s space. He cups his hands around Bucky’s jaw, brushing snowflakes from his sooty lashes with his thumbs, and leans in to kiss him. 

And in spite of the frozen temperature, Steven Barnes is warm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [in tears] there's still an epilogue theres still an epilogue there's still an epilogue- guys i sobbed like a baby so many times writing this chapter because i'm not ready to let them go. this has become the longest thing ive ever written and the most emotional. i relied on this so much since this past may, poured so much of myself into this story and these characters. i'm gonna write a better 'goodbye letter' when i post the epilogue but yeah. im sad. this fic is my baby.
> 
> i wanted to go more in depth on so many things in this chapter, but it was so long already that i kind of glossed over most of the wedding planning because i couldn't get a lot of information about the venue so take it all with a grain of salt. I realize I left steve kind of in the middle of therapy but im not in the right headspace to write out the full twelve sessions and i don't feel like i would be able to accurately portray them. also i kind of have a theme of switching povs going on and i would have to break that if i continued past this point to follow steve's therapy journey. i'll recap a little in the epilogue but just know, he is going to work hard and he's going to keep going even when it's fucking hard and he's going to feel better but it's a long, long process and he and bucky will probably both be in therapy for a very long time. i meant it every time i said that im getting them a happy ending though. this is the best thing i knew how to do for them. thank you so much for joining me on the journey. i love you all.


	25. Epilogue

_Eight months later._

Bucky Barnes wakes to the crashing of ocean waves on rocks. He blinks sleep from his eyes and looks over at the empty space beside him. Steve, the insufferable morning person, is always up before him. 

Today probably earlier than most days, because today is Steve Barnes’ first day of college. 

Bucky hauls himself out of bed, rushing through his morning routine to run downstairs. He finds Steve and Sage in the kitchen eating breakfast- bowls of oatmeal heaped high with fruits mostly grown in Bucky’s patio garden. Sage had flown out to visit at the start of the summer and he isn’t too inclined to make her leave if she doesn’t want to, especially now that Steve will be off at school most of the time and Bucky would otherwise have the house to himself. So she’s been hanging around, taking online classes in sociology. “Hey family,” he wanders over to the plate of fruit and grabs a handful of blackberries. “Steve, promise me you’ll try your best not to get beat up today like you’ve on _every other first day of school in your life_.”

“Fuck you,” Steve says cheerfully, brushing his bangs out of his eyes. He’s doing better these days, since he graduated from CPT. Less nightmares, more good days than bad. And when he does have a bad day, he’s a lot more at ease working through it instead of isolating himself and pushing down his emotions. He still talks to Amelia over video chat weekly and that’ll probably continue for a long time. Bucky does the same with his therapist. It’s just a part of their life. He doesn’t begrudge something that keeps them healthy, able to live happy lives even with the trauma. 

Steve also has pastel aquamarine hair now. And a lip ring. Sage had cajoled him into the changes and he’d resisted at first but once he finally gave in, he _loved_ them. It hadn’t come as a surprise to Bucky. His baby has always resisted the norm. And it looks damn good on him. 

“Maybe later, if you don’t come home with a black eye.” Bucky finishes his berries and pulls his phone out of his pocket. “Hey, I love you!” 

Steve gets that smile on his face, the one that always happens when Bucky says those words to him. The one that could bring him to his knees, thanking all the gods he doesn’t believe in that he gets to live this life; that he gets to have this. He snaps the picture and Steve rolls his eyes at the sound of the shutter but he doesn’t say anything. Bucky opens the Instagram app, captioning it _Baby’s first day of school_ , tagging Steve and posting the image. It’ll get hundreds of thousands of likes in seconds- he’s up somewhere around seven and a half million followers by now, but he puts the notifications on silent and pockets the phone, moving to stand behind Steve’s chair, leaning down to kiss the top of his head. 

“Aw, you guys are so cute, scheduling sex like a couple of forty year olds that live at the end of a cul-de-sac in Iowa. Which one of you is the accountant?” Sage leans back, watching them. 

Bucky scowls, pointing his finger at her. “You take that back right now.” 

“Bucky’s the accountant,” Steve mumbles around a mouthful of oatmeal. “He’s always been good at math.” 

“And you aren’t?” Bucky flicks his shoulder lightly. “That shield doesn’t aim itself around all those angles.” 

Steve shrugs. “Okay, but you _like_ math; I just tolerate its existence. And you pretty much handle all our finances. Ergo, you’re the accountant.” He pulls his phone toward him, glancing at the screen and then looking mournfully back at his oatmeal. “Shit, I gotta get going or I’m gonna be late.” 

“I’ll finish your oatmeal,” Bucky takes the bowl, stepping to the side as Steve pushes his chair back and stands. “I know you’re just gonna stop at the donut shop and eat like a dozen of them on the way to school anyway.” 

Steve doesn’t even have the grace to look sheepish, just leans in and kisses Bucky before grabbing his backpack and the keys to his sad, beat up little 2002 Jeep that he’d bought off a teenager for _way_ more than it was worth. They’d spent the early summer fixing it up as best they could, but you can only do so much with a car that’s over twenty years old. It’s almost comedic to look at the drive and see the dented black Jeep covered in a collection of old surfing bumper stickers sitting next to Bucky’s pristine Maserati. Steve is a… reckless… driver so he’s no longer allowed behind the wheel of Bucky’s car after he tried to exit the interstate through the median when the traffic was sitting still. That had been a trip to the body shop and had almost been a ticket until the cop that pulled them over got a look at who exactly was driving and decided to let it slide. 

Still. No more driving the Maserati for Steve. 

He wanders after his husband into the foyer just in time to see him bend down to pet Gucci as she brushes against his ankles. 

“You’ll take care of them for me while I’m away, won’t you?” Steve asks the cat, unaware of Bucky standing behind him and watching the whole exchange. “I know you’re an alien so if anything happens you’ve gotta use your creepy alien powers for good, got it? Family protects family.” Gucci purrs low in her throat, then turns around and sinks her teeth into Steve’s hand. He yelps and jerks away, standing up. “Evil bastard cat.” 

“Here I was hoping you’d finally made friends,” Bucky smirks when Steve looks at him with wide eyes, a flush on his cheeks. “Yeah, I saw you. I saw the _whole thing_. You’ll never convince me you hate her again.” 

“I do,” Steve implores, pleading. “I hate her so much, Bucky.” 

“You’re a filthy liar.” 

“I want a snake. I want a very big snake. I want a reticulated python, the twelve foot long kind.” 

“You don’t have time for a snake, you have _school_.” Bucky steps forward, cupping his cheeks and kissing him soundly. “For the love of god, drive safe, don’t text and drive, and let me know when you get there. You nervous?” 

Steve breathes out, unsteady. “A little.” 

“You’ll do great. You’re a great artist. Knock ‘em dead, Sweetheart.” 

“I love you.” Steve’s smile is blinding, incandescent. 

Bucky strokes the backs of his flesh knuckles against Steve’s cheek. “Thank you.” 

“You don’t have to thank me every time I say it.” 

It’s become something of a routine, what they’d said the first time they managed to actually mutually say the words at the same time. “I know. I want to,” Bucky laughs, leaning in and kissing Steve softly, whispering against his lips. “I love you too. God help me, Baby, I do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me and My Heart (We'll Make It Through) has been a journey unlike any i've been on before. I've been writing books since i was fourteen years old- that's 7 years now- and nothing i've ever written has touched me as deeply as this fic has. I was so upset when i started it, i didn't even know if it would get a second chapter. then i decided i'd finish it around 30k words and be done with it. and then. and then. and then. somehow it pulled me in and demanded to be told in full. the only thing i knew when i went into it was that i wanted to treat the characters GENTLY. i wanted to give them the healing and the love that canon never did. i didn't have an outline, i didn't even have a plot. i begged readers for ideas so many times bc i didn't have any. me and my heart is a labor of love. i've poured my soul into it, cried when my characters cried. laughed when they laughed. it's taken me seven months of hard HARD work and so many breakdowns. i had so much self doubt over so many chapters because i felt like the project was too big. the characters needed more than i thought i had it in me to give them. i was under qualified. i didn't know enough about the subjects i was trying to write about. i didn't give enough detail into things that needed detail the most. side characters fell by the wayside as i developed and developed steve and bucky. i should just quit.
> 
> but i didn't.
> 
> i didn't quit, and that's down to my support system. to erinn, who has been here from the beginning. to zee, who quickly went from reader to close friend and everything but actual coauthor, who gave me idea after idea when i was so stuck i thought i'd never write again. to rae, who has promoted the FUCK out of this story. to nick, who drew beautiful art. to jo, who suffered my doubts and supported me endlessly. to my friends. and to every single reader (there's over twenty thousand of you now and that's so crazy that i don't even have words). your comments and reactions are what has made this so rewarding and so worth it. thank you for coming on this journey with me. i love you endlessly. 
> 
> you'll most likely see me taking a hiatus from ao3 for a while, but i am working on a new project. keep an eye out for it if you'd like to read. i'll see you soon.
> 
> anastasia

**Author's Note:**

> find me on  
> twitter: buckycried  
> tumblr: stevebuckyrightsonly (marvel side blog) or pressrestart (main)


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